


Astralogy

by Lilia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Chris Argent, Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha Theo Raeken, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Psychics/Psionics, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Banshee Lydia Martin, Canon-Typical Violence, Eichen House is evil, Foster kid Stiles, Ghosts, Knotting, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Multi, Non-Consensual Mating, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Omegas are polyamorous, Orphan Stiles Stilinski, Pack Building, Panic Attacks, Polyamory, Psychic Stiles Stilinski, Spanking, Stiles Stilinski Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Under-negotiated Kink, Werewolf Jackson, see notes for trigger warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-03-17 20:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 98,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13667061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilia/pseuds/Lilia
Summary: The day after Stiles first talked to a dead person, he was locked up in Eichen House and spent the next three years just trying to survive. Until one day Chris Argent, founder of the psychic law enforcement agency PsyCrime, showed up and offered him a job and a place to live.  There are only three tiny problems: Chris is a scorchingly hot Alpha who Stiles wants like burning; Chris' mate, Peter Hale, hates his guts; and Stiles left behind his own mate at Eichen, Theo Raeken, an Alpha werewolf who's locked up for being a mass murderer.  Oh, and Theo's also an insanely powerful psychic, who can get to Stiles any time he's asleep.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Discussion: 
> 
> So I started writing this five days before the Harvey Weinstein story broke. I truly believe this is a watershed moment and I am in awe of the women and men who have come forward to tell their stories. But I was also in the midst of writing a story where the protagonist is in a sexual relationship with a man who is both his boss and his landlord. I think there is a potential for people to find their relationship triggery so I wanted to be very explicit about what you will find here.
> 
> I believe it will be clear from the story that none of the characters--Stiles, Chris, Peter, their co-workers--view their relationship as sexual harassment or Chris as abusing his authority. There is no infidelity and both characters do their best to discuss potential issues in their relationship. The story is omegaverse, and part of the conceit is that omegas have strong submissive instincts, which can be difficult to suppress. In this society, it is considered acceptable for Alphas and omegas to take steps and be intimate in order to manage what they call 'dynamic issues.' (I drew some of the ideas here from the BDSM verse, where it would be considered acceptable for, say, a dominant boss to spank her submissive employee.) So the bottom line is, I did my best to portray a non-abusive relationship that involves a serious power differential. 
> 
> For the record: I am in no way trying to claim that such a relationship could or should exist in real life, but I also think it's okay to fantasize about your boss spanking you assuming you don't engage in harassing behavior yourself. Fantasies occupy their own space, with their own rules, and for me personally, that is the entire point of reading and writing fic. I hope this is enough to help people decide if they want to continue.
> 
>  
> 
> Acknowledgement of a major inspiration:  
> A lot of details in this story are drawn from Jordan Castillo Price's marvelous PsyCop series. The hero of that series, Vic Bayne, is a medium who was locked up in a hellish facility for psychics, and after getting released joins the Chicago PD, where his main job is to take statements from the ghosts of murder victims. So I basically borrowed that set-up and gave it a thoroughly Teen Wolf fanfic spin, including substituting our favorite heroes, bad guys, and adding werewolves and then plopping it in the Omegaverse, cuz that's my thing. I don't think fans of Price's series will find much that they recognize beyond the actual conceit, though when I didn't know the last name of a TW character I borrowed one from Price's books. It should be clear that I highly recommend Price's series, so if you want to check it out, here is the Amazon link for the first book, [Among the Living](https://www.amazon.com/Among-Living-PsyCop-Book-1-ebook/dp/B002TG4OZ0/).
> 
> Comments are hugely appreciated.

Stiles stared at the open cupboard. Four cans of organic plum tomatoes, extra-virgin olive oil, also organic, 2 boxes of something called fusilli, a jar of olives from Morocco, and a jar of “capers,” which looked disturbingly like someone decided to pickle little green boogers.

He could hear Chris’ voice in his head: “We stocked the kitchen for you until you get your first paycheck and can do some shopping on your own.”

WTF. Stocked for who? Obviously not him. There was no ramen, no jarred salsa, or god forbid a jar of Prego. There was also no canned soup, not that it mattered since there was no microwave. The clock on the stove showed the time to be 6:33 pm. Tomorrow was Monday, his first day at his new job. Chris had said they’d leave for work at 6:30am. Even a fuck-up, high school drop-out like Stiles knew that meant it would be 12 hours minus three minutes before he had any hope of another meal.

His stomach sank and he almost felt like he could throw up but he was too fucking hungry. He weighed his options. He could go upstairs and ask for help or he could try to wait it out. Neither option was at all attractive: it didn’t take an empath to know that Chris’ werewolf partner-husband-whatever, was not happy about having an Eichen House reject for a tenant. He wondered that he still gave a shit what some random asshole thought of him, but there it was. The thought of facing down Peter’s sneer made him almost wish he was back at Eichen.

The other option was to try to wait it out: it wasn’t like he’d never skipped dinner before—or been forced to skip either for punishments or because of whatever med they were pumping him full of. The problem was he was majorly hungry, like ravenous, like he needed to eat _right this goddamn second_ , and he could just picture himself sweating it out for a few more hours before breaking down and pounding on Chris’ door at 2am, which would not win him any points as a tenant or an employee. And what if low blood sugar sparked a panic attack? He was not going to impress his colleagues at PsyCrime by hyperventilating until he passed out. And he was trying his hardest not to think about what would happen if (when) he had to deal with Theo tonight.

Probably it was for the best that the last prospect was dire enough to push him for once to make an actual decision. No contest: it was better to get it over with. Politely ask Chris if he could give him some actual edible food, hopefully without sounding like Oliver fucking Twist while he did.

He went out the door to his basement one-bedroom, through the garden, and out the gate around to the steps leading to the front door of Chris’ townhouse. He pushed the doorbell, which made a musical chime deep inside the house. A moment later, Peter answered because of course he did.

“Uh, hi, Mr. Hale.”

“Seriously, Mr. Hale? Aren’t you the polite little omega. What do you want? Chris isn’t here.”

So Stiles had not just imagined that bitchy, thin-lipped disapproval. He supposed his old therapist would say it was an important step that he was reading other people accurately. Too bad the reality was just more fodder for his paranoia. “Uh, yah, I’m sorry to, uh bother you…”

“Get to the point.”

Stiles winced but couldn’t resist the snap in the Alpha’s tone. “I can’t cook: I don’t know how to, uh, make the stuff you left in the kitchen.”

“You can’t make pasta?”

“There’s no microwave.”

“You can’t microwave dried pasta, for fuck’s sake.”

Stiles tried to hunch down, every cutting word feeling like some portent from the cosmos warning that he was on the fast track back to Eichen, that even this watered-down version of independent adulting was way beyond his abilities.

Peter shook his head like he’d literally never heard anything so pathetic. “Is there anything you _can_ make?”

“Without a microwave? Uh, chips and salsa, peanut butter—soup I guess, if you could show me how to open the can and use the stove.”

“Absolutely not—don’t you dare touch the stove. We just finished renovating. I’ll have a microwave installed tomorrow.” Peter finally moved away from the door, gesturing that Stiles should come in. He followed the Alpha through the small front hall, past a large seating area which was too pretentious to have a TV, a huge dining-room table, all the way to a massive kitchen that took up the whole rear half of the townhouse.

Unlike Stiles’ kitchen that even he recognized screamed “rental unit,” Chris and Peter’s kitchen looked like a spread from a fancy shelter magazine. The counters were polished butcher block, lined with tiles that looked hand-painted, probably from some place like Morocco or Tuscany. The appliances were all stainless steel, including a six-burner stove, which would have been at home in a restaurant kitchen. Two of the burners were in use, but other than a cutting board with some onions and carrots, the whole place was spotless. Unfortunately, whatever was cooking smelled delicious, so much he thought he might pass out.

Peter was opening various cupboards. “Is almond butter alright? We don’t have peanut butter.”

It sounded gross, but Stiles stammered, “Sure.” It couldn’t be worse than Sunday night mystery meat at Eichen, could it?

“An omega who can’t use a stove—I guess I should be impressed. So subversive.”

Stiles shrugged. It was only now that he was out that he realized that in its psychotic way, Eichen was actually progressive when it came to gender, race, sexuality, species, or dynamic. There were only two classes there: inmates and everyone else. And it didn’t matter if an inmate was human, werewolf, black, white, Alpha, beta, omega, male, female, gay, straight: they were all equally _fucked_.

“They didn’t teach us cooking at Eichen,” Stiles mumbled. There was a time before Eichen, and even in the early months after he was admitted, when he would have told Peter to go fuck himself. But those days were long gone.

“Obviously. Well here’s some stuff for sandwiches—strawberry-rhubarb jam okay?—I’m afraid we’re fresh out of grape jelly.” Peter said it with a sarcastic smirk, apparently directed at the existence of so plebeian a substance as grape jelly, unlike little jars of green snotballs and almond butter. The werewolf handed him a canvas grocery bag that included the jam and not-peanut butter as well as an _entire loaf_ of bread.

“Wow, thanks—you don’t have to give me so much,” he fumbled, actually meaning it.

“Oh good lord, save the sad omega eyes for Chris, they’re wasted on me.”

“Sorry,” he gulped, momentarily catching Peter’s eye before lowering his gaze.

It was like his whole body shuddered. The werewolf was obnoxiously good-looking, and tragically for Stiles, his assholery was triggering some _unexpected_ (and highly unwelcome) impulses, specifically an almost overwhelming urge to go to his knees, quickly followed by an even more desperate desire to take the Alpha’s dick in his mouth.

Peter must of sensed something because his eyes flared red. “Jesus,” he snapped, sounding disgusted. “None of that either, omega—you’re Chris’ project not mine.” He took Stiles by the elbow and pushed him out the front door and closed it.


	2. Chapter 2

Two sandwiches later, Stiles was obsessively focused on figuring out the different channels on the cable box, none of which seemed familiar from his life before Eichen.

He was absolutely _not_ thinking about Peter or his own pathetic omega urge to suck his dick.

And _that_ was a huge fucking lie. He was obsessively going over every second, every nuance and possible interpretation of their interaction, trying to gage how likely it was that Chris was going to come downstairs and send him packing back to Eichen.

He managed to fight off the urge to run back up and apologize and beg Peter not to say anything, which he figured would not score him any popularity points with the Alpha. He wondered that it was hitting him so strongly. He simply didn’t have a context for any of this, despite sporting the mother of all mating bites on his neck.

His suspense didn’t last too long. Around 8pm Stiles was startled by a knock on the door. Knocking or waiting for permission to enter a room wasn’t exactly Eichen SOP. He gingerly opened the door to see Chris holding a plate covered in foil.

“Hi, Peter said you came by earlier.”

“Yeah, I’m, like, so sorry about that—I swear it won’t happen again,” he rushed to say.

Chris made an enigmatic smile and said, “Do you mind if I come in?”

Stiles didn’t know how to answer that. It was Chris’ house: he’d come in whenever the fuck he wanted. Chris seemed to be waiting so he stepped back. Nodding at the plate, he said, “Peter figured you might want something other than sandwiches.”

Stiles rolled his eyes at the idea that Peter had the slightest desire to feed his unwanted new tenant.

“Hey,” Chris said, putting his free hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “One thing you will learn very quickly living and working with werewolves is to avoid casual lies. Peter fixed this plate up and pretty much ordered me to bring it down to you.”

He swallowed. “Okay, sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“Stiles, it’s okay,” Chris said. “Why don’t you take a seat and eat this and we can talk a little.”

Chris wasn’t using the Alpha tone, or really ordering him at all, but even more than Peter, the guy radiated Alpha dominance, and Stiles couldn’t help shuddering. He realized that the Alpha was watching him closely, examining his reactions.

Luckily for his sanity, the food made for an effective distraction from his rampaging omega instincts. He pulled the foil off to reveal some sort of baked pasta dish that smelled better than anything he’d ever eaten in his life and tasted just as good. He kept his eyes strictly on his plate as he tried to avoid shoveling the food into his mouth. Chris took a seat on the little sofa about six feet away.

“It’s delicious,” he muttered. “Tell Peter thank you—and sorry again.”

“Yeah, about that…”

“I swear it won’t happen again.”

“Stiles, what do you think happened?”

“I… I don’t… I can’t,” he fumbled, like a complete fucking idiot.

Chris took pity on him. “Peter told me you seemed to be reacting to him as an Alpha, but he made clear that you did nothing to act on it. It’s okay if you’re attracted to him; trust me, he’ll let you know if you do something he doesn’t like.”

Stiles fought a losing battle with irritation at Chris’ apparent need to soft-pedal everything. “Look, it’s obvious he’s not psyched about my living here.”

“Will that be a problem for you?”

“What?”

“Living here—will it make it hard for you to live here? I get that Peter makes a lot of people uncomfortable, whether because he’s a werewolf, or an Alpha, or frankly just an asshole. Your being an omega obviously complicates the dynamic. I don’t want anything to make it harder for you to adjust.”

Stiles had no idea how to respond and finally said, “Is this some Alpha thing—you need to protect the poor omega?”

He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone, but Chris, in defiance of every stereotype of an apex Alpha, was apparently hard to offend. “In part—I’m as susceptible to dynamic as you are. But when we spoke at Eichen, I promised you protection—same as I do everyone on my team. I don’t want you sitting down here worrying about Peter. He can take care of himself.”

“It’s his house.”

“It’s yours too, now, so long as we can make it work for you.”

Stiles couldn’t help the explosion of panic at his overall life prospects if Chris decided this wasn’t working. A second later, the Alpha was right in front of him. “Stiles.”

Fuck, he was on the floor. “Sorry, sorry.” God, this was it, Chris was going to realize what a fucking basket case he was. Holy shit, what was he going to do….

 _“Omega attend!”_ The words felt like a jolt of adrenaline. “Eyes, Stiles,” Chris said less sharply.

Under the pressure of the order, Stiles fixated on Chris’ eyes. They were blue—Theo’s were blue too. Only Theo’s were this angelic shade that somehow promised rainbows and unicorns and innocence, and then you realized the truth and the floor completely fell out from under you. Chris’ were different. They made Stiles think of cold steel—strong, capable of being deadly sharp, but somehow always reliable.

He realized he wasn’t panicking anymore. Small mercies. Chris helped him up to sit on the sofa.

“Stiles, I can’t help you if I don’t understand what’s wrong,” Chris was saying. As if he could help him at all. Stiles was a train wreck. “Are you afraid of what will happen if you can’t make it work here?”

Fucking A. “I can’t even feed myself: how am I supposed to hold down a job?”

“You’re hardly the only person at PsyCrime who doesn’t know how to cook: I’m sure as soon as you have money, you’ll become as adept at ordering take-out as your colleagues.”

“That’s not…”

“I didn’t hire you to cater my daughter’s wedding, Stiles. I hired you because you can talk to dead people.”

 _Fucking A._ “I _sense_ them,” he snapped, much too quickly. “Cold spots, mostly.”

Chris nodded, exactly like he’d had his suspicions confirmed. Fuck! Stiles knew the guy was watching him, reading his responses. He couldn’t afford this.

“Stiles, let me explain something to you. In my experience, there are two types of psychic who come out of Eichen. Those who boast about their abilities, and those who try to hide them. Those in the first group generally describe Eichen as unpleasant and restrictive, but otherwise don’t show signs of PTSD. Those in the second group are to a person utterly terrified of it. I’ve found those in the first group mostly rank level three or lower. Those in the second group are invariably level four or higher. I am not in any doubt of which group you fall into. In fact, if I had to guess, you can both see and communicate with the dead.”

“Jesus fuck!” he snapped, jumping to his feet even though that was probably the final evidence Chris needed to confirm his _guess_. “How the fuck are you doing this? Are you a telepath?”

“Not at all. I’m just experienced in interrogation.”

“You shouldn’t—you can’t talk about it,” he whispered. “Please.”

“Listen carefully: _I believe you._ I have zero doubt that it is as dangerous as you say it is.”

“I can’t go back there.”

“I understand.”

Stiles could feel his face burning. “With all due respect, sir, you _really_ don’t.”

Chris nodded, which was more than he’d expected from an Alpha. “You’re right. I can’t know what you went through. But you’re not the first person I’ve hired out of Eichen, Stiles. Trust me when I say that every single person I’ve dealt with from there would do literally anything to keep from going back. Is that clear enough for you? Thursday, when we first met, I told you I had two priorities, do you remember what they were?”

“That your first is protecting your team and your second is earning their trust.”

“I meant both of those.”

“You can’t protect me if you can’t protect yourself.”

“Are you worried about the people at Eichen or Theo Raeken?”

“Both. Eichen mostly, I guess.”

“Well as to that, something you should know about me; I’m a nul.”

“Nul?”

“Psychic powers don’t work on me: empathy, astral projection, remote viewing, none of that can work when I’m in a room.”

“I—that’s—that’s a lot to take in.”

“I’m sure it is. As far as Theo Raeken is concerned, you should know that I spoke to him after I met with you at Eichen.”

Stiles shot up. “You what?”

“After I met with you, I went down to see your mate and told him that I would be removing you from Eichen House.”

“What, to get his permission or something?”

“No, I didn’t ask his permission, but I did inform him as a courtesy that I was assuming responsibility for you. You are living in the house of another Alpha werewolf. There is an etiquette that has to be followed.”

God, Stiles could just imagine that scene. “Did he say anything?” What he really wanted to ask was how Theo looked. He’d not seen him in the physical since they’d mated, but that was definitely not something he needed Chris thinking about.

“His exact words were, ‘I understand.’ Nothing else. I admit, he’s not easy to read.”

No shit. Stiles felt a weird and entirely inappropriate dizziness at the idea of Chris and Theo staring each other down over who was going to get custody of him. He knew damn well he should not be turned on by that, but he was too strung out, and right now he couldn’t help succumbing to that pathetic omega urge to have Alphas competing over him.

And no question Chris was doing things to him: the Alpha was too fucking hot and sooo confident. The sheer level of dominance was irresistible: it was just so effortless, like it was nothing more than an expression of his personality. But Stiles got no sense that Chris was using his Alpha mojo to intimidate or control the people around him. It was the opposite of Theo, who trafficked in fear, and had made an art out of smiling menace.

But Theo was also impossible to intimidate and Chris was right that he was hard to read: all those nights in Astral had given him almost superhuman control over the information he revealed to others.

God, his mouth was watering: he was such a cliché—the omega desperate to suck an Alpha’s cock, but Stiles could vouch: the cliché existed for a reason. He couldn’t take it anymore, the proximity, and began pacing around the room.

“Stiles, what is happening to you right now?”

Fuck, each thing he said was just making it worse. Stiles tried for defiance. “What’s happening is that I want to suck your fat Alpha cock and I am having trouble controlling it.”

He had to give Chris credit: he reacted to that tidbit in as non-douchy a way as was humanly possible: no smug smirks or pitying concern, he just looked totally focused.

“I want to help you,” he said carefully, “but you are very agitated right now.”

“Yeah, well I’m trying to stop myself from making a pass at my new boss, making his partner hate me even more than he already does, and getting evicted before I’ve even spent one night here.”

“Peter and I are not exclusive, and I promise you are not at risk of getting evicted because of anything to do with your dynamic.”

Stiles was barely listening. He tugged at his hair and when that didn’t help starting digging his nails into his arm, which helped a little; he tried digging deeper, maybe if he drew blood...

_“Omega, kneel and cross your wrists behind your back.”_

It was like shoving a fork in an electric socket: Chris’ Alpha tone jolted his whole body and his vision clouded as he collapsed on his knees and crossed his hand behind his back. He could feel the anxiety ebbing, transmuting into pure desperation to submit

_“Omega, are you listening?”_

“Yes, Alpha.” It was like the world was narrowing to just that voice and his own body’s response to it.

“I need to understand why you’re so agitated. Are you worried because you bear another Alpha’s bite?”

Was that supposed to be some kind of euphemism? That at least banished the omega for a second. “Theo can shove that bite up his ass,” he snapped. “I told him a thousand times I wouldn’t do exclusivity—for him or any Alpha.” But of course as soon as the words were out, the omega roared back to life and he started babbling, “Sorry, I’m sorry, Alpha….”

 _“Omega attend!”_ That was almost a growl. Fuck, Chris was good at this.

“Yes, Alpha.”

“Stiles, I want to help you, but you are reacting very strongly right now,” Chris said carefully. “I am concerned about your ability to consent. I need to know: are you able to speak up when you don’t like something. _Answer truthfully_.”

Again, the Alpha tone seemed to rip through his entire body. “Yes, yes, I swear.”

“Omega, have you ever been spanked before?”

“No, Alpha.” He couldn’t help looking up in alarm.

“I am not angry at you,” Chris said gently. “It would be the simplest way to make you feel my dominance. I won’t fuck you without a much longer conversation, when you are not agitated. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Alpha.” Stiles swallowed his disappointment. He knew he should care more, a very good sign that the Alpha was right.

“Do you want to continue?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay. If at _any_ time I do something you don’t like, all you have to do is say “no” or “stop” and I will stop immediately. If I detect any fear or distress in you, I will stop immediately. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Alpha. Thank you.”

“Do you have any triggers?”

“Restraints—no restraints.” He tolerated them in Astral, where Theo seemed able to make him tolerate anything, but he couldn’t handle them in the physical, not after the different “procedures” he’d been subjected to.

“Good boy. It is _essential_ that you tell me when you have a trigger. It is never acceptable to try to force yourself to endure something you find distressing. Is that clear, omega?”

“Yes, Alpha.”

“Stand up and drop your pants and then lie over my lap.”

Of fuck. It was like every cell in his body was desperate to obey. It was making him dizzy until he could barely handle the stupid zipper. But once he was settled over the Alpha’s lap, he could feel his body relaxing. The desperate buzzing in his brain quieted and he could just wait.

“You understand that you are not being punished?”

“Yeah—yes, Alpha.” The words sounded almost slurred.

Chris ran a hand up his back to his neck, which he squeezed, and then gave a gentle pull to his hair. He ran his hand back down and then Stiles felt it lift off. “Fifteen,” Chris said from what seemed like another room.

He might have worried that he’d slipped so deep that quickly, but once the first burning smack came, he was jerked back into the room and the moment.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Chris was solid and warm underneath him—his hand hot and relentless as it crashed down on his ass. The Alpha was strong and the smacks hurt, but for once all Stiles felt was reassurance. It was so real, so physical, each smack helping to sate that rampaging craving that had ambushed him so thoroughly the moment he’d moved in.

This was _nothing_ like being in Astral, where Theo was so powerful he functioned like some spoiled teenaged god, fascinated by his own whims and accountable to no one. Having sex in Astral, there was no need for lube, no itches or stickiness or embarrassing sounds, but nothing was real, and other than shooting his load, Stiles’ body never showed any physical signs of what they’d done.

This, however, he was going to feel tomorrow every time he sat at his new desk—just thinking about it was turning him on.

“Beautiful,” Chris murmured, squeezing his neck. Somehow he’d finished without Stiles realizing.

“Please, Alpha,” Stiles couldn’t help begging.

 _“State what you want clearly, omega,”_ Chris commanded softly.

“Oh God. Please, please can I blow you?” he begged his face probably turning as red as his butt.

“Good boy—yes. Get down slowly. You may be dizzy.” Chris practically lifted him off and gently lowered him to the floor. He was right: Stiles was dizzy and gripped the Alpha’s thighs to steady himself. Chris stroked his cheek, waiting until he was steady.

“Please—can I? I’m okay.”

“Go ahead,” Chris murmured. Stiles had Chris’ pants unbuttoned and his dick out in seconds. He was thrilled to see that Chris was already hard. He didn’t tease--He’d been dying to get his mouth on the Alpha’s dick from the moment he saw him at Eichen.

And then his mouth was full of hot, musky Alpha.

God the scent—it was heady, seeming designed to appeal directly to his omega soul. It was like he couldn’t get enough and pushed too far until he started to choke.

“Easy, omega, nurse it,” Chris murmured. He groaned and his eyes burned, but he forced himself to obey, hold back. “Good, boy, that’s perfect.” The praise went straight to his dick, and he couldn’t help shuffling, trying to get some relief without breaking down and using his hands. Chris noticed of course. “Hands behind your back. I’ll let you know when you can come.” His lust surged then, and he began sucking desperately as his only outlet. “That’s right. Keep your focus on me.” Stiles groaned again and felt a gentle pressure on the back of his head. “Is that alright?” Chris asked.

Stiles wanted to shout “God yes,” but could only manage what he hoped was an enthusiastic moan.

“Good boy, perfect,” the Alpha murmured again.

Stiles could feel that Chris was getting close: the grip on the back of his head tightened slightly and Chris began pulsing—it was slight, nothing rough like Stiles usually got off on. There was something incredibly hot in the Alpha’s control—over himself and over Stiles.

Stiles risked at look at the Alpha’s face: he was staring down at him, watching him, reading him. It made him feel hopelessly exposed and he closed his eyes, just in time to feel the hot, bitter cum spurt into his mouth.

When he looked up again, the Alpha was smiling, and gently rubbed his cheek. Chris hadn’t told him to pull off, so he kept his mouth where it was, but he couldn’t help squirming, both from embarrassment and from desperation. “You ready to come, omega?” he asked.

Stiles nodded with the dick still in his mouth. “Keep your hands where they are,” Chris said, as he helped Stiles stand up and turn around. Next Chris was pulling him down to sit on his lap facing out, and then grasping his shins to pull his legs up until he was kneeling, straddling the Alpha’s lap. “Lean your head back, omega,” Chris murmured in his ear. The position forced him to arch his back, leaving his dick jutting out—in other words, he was crazily exposed. He felt a tap on his mouth from Chris’ fingers. “Wet them,” Chris ordered. It was scary how good Chris was at this. Stiles obeyed of course, lavishly licking Chris’ palm and fingers. Chris reached around and ran a gentle finger along Stiles’ dick.

“Oh God!” he cried out, trying to squirm.

“ _Stay still, omega_ ,” Chris ordered. Stiles body froze without him consciously willing it. “Who controls this?” he demanded.

“You do, sir.”

“That’s right, and I don’t ever want to see your hands anywhere near this cock when I’m in the room. Is that clear, omega?”

“Oh my god, yes, Alpha, yes. Fuck.”

Chris continued stroking him too gently, until Stiles was practically screaming. “I can’t, I can’t…” he babbled.

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t stay still, please…” He felt as Chris moved his free arm around to hold him. There was a sharp pinch on his nipple, which threw him over the edge. He started thrashing, babbling out _Alphas_ , and _pleases_ , and _Oh Gods_ , while Chris murmured in his ear that he was a good omega, and beautiful, and so sexy like this.

“Good omega. Are you ready to come.”

“Fuck! Please, please Alpha.”

Chris squeezed him just enough, increasing the pace as he jacked him. More than anything Stiles felt the Alpha’s control—it was like a slow wave that was inexorably moving him towards orgasm, but which he couldn’t stop or speed up.

“Very nice, omega, here we go, come now.” It wasn’t even in the Alpha tone, but his body reacted like it was, jerking helplessly as he shot his load into Chris’ hand. Next the Alpha’s fingers were back at his mouth, demanding entry. He dutifully licked up his own cum, trying to squirm off, but being held tight by Chris who turned him around and nudged him to rest his head on his shoulder as he came down from such a crazy-ass, subby rush.

“Fuck, that was intense,” he groaned. “Sorry about that.”

“Hey, don’t apologize. It’s obvious you really needed it. I admit I’m surprised and a little concerned that you reacted this strongly to meeting two new Alphas. How long has it been since you’ve seen Theo Raeken?”

The words were like a splash of cold water, pretty much killing the high of the orgasm. “He’s in solitary,” Stiles said hoarsely. “They haven’t let me, since….”

“Since the murders?” Chris finished for him.

The real answer of course was four days—ever since Chris had come to see him in Eichen and offer him the job with PsyCrime. Stiles had been so worried Theo would do something to stop him from leaving Eichen, he’d taken cat naps at weird times during the day so he could stay up all night. If he didn’t sleep, he couldn’t enter Astral.

But as fixes went, this one pretty much defined short-term: there was no way he could stay up another night, not when he was supposed to start his fancy new job tomorrow.

“I’m sensing fear from you. You should be aware he’s in a supermax cell in Eichen. They can hold even an Alpha werewolf.”

Stiles couldn’t help a snort at that. There wasn’t any cell in existence that could keep Theo out of Astral.

Of course Chris caught it. “From that response, I guessing that you have had contact with him in Astral.”

Stiles flinched at the question, which for Chris must have been the equivalent of a ten-paged written confession. Fucking A. This was not a secret he could afford to give up. Stiles twisted trying to get up, but Chris was still holding him. “Let me up, please.” To his credit the Alpha instantly released him. He fumbled to get his pants on.

“Stiles, I am worried about you. Are you afraid Raeken might hurt you?”

But for once, Stiles had lost patience with the Alpha “concern.” He could no longer ignore how exhausted he was, which had the inconvenient side effect of making him much less worried about offending his new boss/landlord.

“Chris, I really appreciate what you did for me…”

“That’s great, now please answer my question: are you afraid that Theo Raeken will hurt you in Astral?”

 _Jesus Fucking Christ_. Amazing the difference an orgasm could make: ten minutes ago the Alpha bossiness had him writhing on the floor, but now it was just pissing him off. “No. I’m his fucking mate—if I die, he dies.”

“Stiles, that’s not what I meant….”

“Look, Chris, with all due respect, my relationship with Theo is none of your business.”

“Why are you so angry right now? It’s obviously due to Theo Raeken.”

Fucking dude would not give up—it was too much. “I’m mad because I don’t need to hear the Alpha bullshit right now. I’m not afraid for myself, I’m afraid for you. You’re fucking head of PsyCrime. You must have read his file. He’s dangerous, and call it selfishness on my part, but if something happens to you, I am totally and unequivocally fucked.”

“I can protect myself from Theo Raeken.”

“Peter….”

“Peter is a born werewolf—they can’t enter Astral.”

“Great, then there’s nothing to worry about. I really need you to leave.”

Apparently that was all he needed to say. Chris was on his feet instantly. “I apologize—Peter told me to tell you that breakfast is at 6:15 if you want it.”

Stiles just nodded, unable to go through any of the courtesies. Once Chris was out the door, he locked it and flicked the lights. There was no point in waiting. His eyes were burning so he splashed his face a few times with cold water, but he didn’t have the energy to undress or even brush his teeth. He collapsed on top of the covers and a second later he was back at Eichen.

“Finally,” Theo said, grabbing him by the throat and shoving him against the wall. “Did you think you could hide from me?”


	3. Chapter 3

“Like that would work!” Stiles snapped. “Let go of me.”

Even after all the time he’d logged in Astral, Stiles still couldn’t get his head around how physical it seemed. He was almost positive that was down to Theo and just how fucking powerful he was here. Unless Stiles knew for sure where he was, he couldn’t tell the difference between reality and OBE. He’d begun to wonder whether that was true for Theo too—not that he confused the two, but just that the difference wasn’t especially meaningful to him since the two realms melded so seamlessly.

With Theo at least there was nothing subtle about the subtle bodies. He let his claws dig into Stiles’ throat in a way that would have drawn blood in the real world. “Imagine my surprise four days ago when I get a visit from Christopher fucking Argent, the head of PsyCrime, to _inform_ me that he’s removing my mate from Eichen. He was even nice enough to promise to give you his _personal_ protection.”

“So you wanted me to stay locked up in Eichen with you?—how long do you think I was gonna last?” Stiles shot back.

“Good try, babe, but I did expect at least a goodbye, for you to tell me _yourself_ that you were getting out of this shithole. I couldn’t find you for four days. What the fuck did you tell him?”

“I didn’t tell him anything, asshole. I’m not that stupid, and more important I like being alive!”

Theo paused for a second, watching him. “Then why did you avoid me? Were you afraid I’d stop you from leaving?”

“That’s exactly what I was afraid of! And then I was afraid you were going to act like a fucking psycho! And whatdya know—I was right!” Stiles wished he could avoid that particular insult, since it usually just made Theo up the psycho bullshit even more. But there was no lying in Astral, and especially when he was upset, it was close to impossible for him to say anything other than exactly what he was thinking.

Theo laughed, a sound that used to make Brunski practically wet his pants. “Ooo, it hurts when you call me that, little mate.”

“Stop trying to scare me, and don’t call me mate.” He struggled again, to no avail. He fought back whatever passed for tears in Astral, reflexively trying to avoid anything that gave Theo more ammunition against him.

It would probably have surprised most people that Stiles wasn’t afraid that Theo would hurt him—even before the mating bite he had never worried about it. But fear was a tool for Theo, one he wielded shockingly well. Stiles hadn’t especially cared when Theo wielded it against other people. For six months he’d watched, fascinated as Theo methodically targeted every employee and any inmate stupid enough to put themselves on his radar. It was like a game to him: he’d fix on his target, watch them, make friends if he had to, until he found a weakness. And then he’d wait for the perfect moment to strike. He’d smile and make some seemingly bland comment, usually not even an explicit threat, but enough to undermine that unthinking sense of safety most people depended on to get out of bed in the morning.

Before six weeks ago, it had never gone past mental mindfuckery, but Theo was an Alpha werewolf surrounded by humans: he could kill with the swipe of a claw, and by the end of his first month at Eichen, Theo had made sure that no one seriously doubted that he _would_ kill you if you gave him a reason.

Theo tilted his head, which Stiles guessed was his way of reading his aura. “Someone just got off,” Theo said. “That was fast. You let Argent fuck you or did you suck his cock?”

“I sucked his cock. You have a problem with it?”

“I might. He is an Alpha after all.”

“Good try--I can tell you’re not angry about that.”

Suddenly, Theo was behind him, whispering in his ear, “I should be angry at you, but maybe I’m too busy imagining what you looked like going down on your knees for Argent. I bet you were good for him—good little omega, sucking his cock like you were starving for it, like you could never get enough. Was that what it was like: were you starving for it?”

“Yes!” Stiles shuddered back into his arms. “Fuck, Theo….”

He was enveloped in a rush of pure lust, something else Theo controlled as effortlessly as breathing in Astral. The lights around him changed from the sickly fluorescent glow of Eichen to a pulsing red. Stiles wasn’t sure if that was his imagination projecting or Theo’s—Theo’s, he hoped, since it was such a fucking cliché.

“Did you miss me, miss my cock, babe?”

“Yes.” No lying in Astral. There was nothing healthy about their relationship and he’d have done just about anything short of killing Theo to break the mating bond, but they’d gone through too much together. Breaking would be like ripping out a huge part of himself.

Though now Stiles suspected Theo had been the nail in a particular type of coffin, the day he met him, he’d felt like a lifeline. Time was fuzzy in Eichen, but Stiles calculated he’d been there about two and half years the day they met.

The brochures--which actually existed, Stiles had seen them--described Eichen House as an “Institute for the Study of the Psychic Arts and the Education of the Psychically Gifted.” The first claim was true enough, at least in that horror movie sense of sicko experiments on institutionalized teenagers. As for the second, for the first six months he’d been there, it had actually been sort of true.

In retrospect those months hadn’t been bad—well, they’d _sucked_ , but it was the suckiness of a bad eighties movie high school: the director, Adrian Harris, was a complete tool, the kids were assholes, the food was crap.

And of course there were the lurking orderlies to remind you that Eichen was in fact a mental hospital masquerading as a high school. But Stiles had to concede that basically Eichen was trying to do what it claimed: test kids for psychic powers and teach them how to control their abilities. It didn’t do any of that _well_ , but it wasn’t like it was orders of magnitude worse than the crap high school he’d gone to before he’d been dumb enough to tell the guidance counselor that there was a kid covered in blood in the first floor boy’s bathroom, one who’d committed suicide in 1986.

And Eichen had had two things in its favor: for the first time in his life he had friends, Lydia and Heather, a banshee and an empath, and he got to have tons and tons of sex, which was a huge improvement on the _no sex_ of his previous life.

In between required classes and group therapy sessions, he and Lydia and Heather had spent most of their time sitting in the corner of the rec room, bitching about how everyone there was an asshole, while pretty much acting like complete assholes themselves, and then seeing how many of those assholes they could fuck. Lydia was miles ahead of course, in both the number and hotness of her conquests, but he and Heather had a decent run, especially after they both presented as omegas.

And then one day he saw Harris’s ghost with a tidy red bullet hole in his forehead, and sitting in the director’s chair was “call-me-Jennifer” Blake.

And then his real education had started. Above all he’d learned that the human psyche was about as strong and resilient as a house made from tooth-picks and Elmer’s glue. So long as there was no wind, no impacts, you could keep building, reveling in the illusion that it was a magnificent and original creation. But god forbid that impact came, because then the whole thing collapsed in a goddamned heap and good luck building it up again now that you knew the truth.

The impact, for Stiles at least, was one Dr. Gabriel Valack, in charge of “psychic research” in Jennifer’s new and improved Eichen. The man himself was a total blowhard: more than anything he reminded Stiles of some villain in a bad TV show, monologuing endlessly in the most pretentious way imaginable. He carried a goddamned pocket-watch for fuck’s sake.

Stiles wasn’t even sure what the dude’s psychic power was: telepathy? An unusual variety of shaman? But whatever it was, holy shit was it effective. Stiles didn’t last even fifteen minutes before he was a cowering wreck. And the genius of true fear, he’d discovered, was that it only needed to teach its lesson once, and from then on it had your undying respect. Stiles couldn’t even think about his most abject moments with Valack without being in danger of getting ripped back in time to experience them all over again.

The day he met Theo, Valack had given him a powerful psyactive and locked him in a room with a pair of corpses, werewolf kids, siblings, Lori and Brett, who’d only been there a few days.

Two and a half years into his stay at Eichen, Stiles had stopped caring about bodies. He wondered if Valack would have locked him in there if he’d had any idea how strong Stiles was. Stiles didn’t need a psyactive to see exactly how Brett and Lori died. There was no ghost, just repeaters, almost like a movie, showing how they were gunned down: Brett’s attempt to push Lori out of the way, Lori’s scream as Brett took the first bullet, and then the terror in her face as the invisible gunman turned on her and pulled the trigger.

Over and over and over on an endless loop.

Somehow all of that fear and despair and love had been intense enough to leave a permanent spiritual scar on the physical world. But awful as that was, Stiles couldn’t help fixating on the part he couldn’t see, that had left no trace: the evil that had calmly, coolly destroyed these two kids. Why didn’t that leave a scar? Why just the terror of two helpless kids, while the evil and the cruelty moved on with its day? Stiles couldn’t let it go. It was like when he was a kid and he’d get fixated on some batman plot point and would stay up until 4am obsessing, biting his nails bloody.

He had no idea how long he’d been locked in there. But when the dickless wonder, Brunski, opened the door, Stiles threw himself at his feet, begging.

It was like there was none of himself left—no pride or brains or sarcasm—nothing except for fear.

Which was when an unfamiliar voice demanded, “What’s going on here?” Stiles looked up to see another inmate, a new kid he’d never seen before.

“Hey, you’re not supposed to be down here,” Brunski sneered, pulling out a Taser—was the kid a werewolf? Orderlies didn’t bother with Tasers for the humans.

The kid just laughed. It was jarring, because it didn’t sound like bravado.

“Now look here, kid, I’m not going to tell you again: You’re not supposed to be down here,” Brunski said in what sounded like the textbook definition of bravado.

The kid just ignored him. “You’re an omega?” He flashed his eyes at Stiles. Red.

“Holy shit, you’re an Alpha!” Since when did Eichen try to hold Alpha werewolves?

“I didn’t realize there were any omegas in this hellhole,” the werewolf said.

Stiles couldn’t repress the shudder of pain at the thought of Heather. “Just me,” he said. “You’re the first Alpha I’ve seen.”

The werewolf smiled smugly, almost like he was flirting which was pretty surreal under the circumstances. “What’s your name, omega?”

“Stiles.”

“I’m Theo.”

“Hey!” Brunksi raised his Taser again, not happy about being ignored.

“I think you should get lost,” Theo told him.

“So you can fuck this little whore?”

“Were you looking to get an appointment yourself?” Stiles shot back. That was 1000% bravado.

“I wouldn’t touch you, you filthy slut….”

The werewolf dropped his claws; the control collar he wore buzzed, but Theo just chuckled, like he found it cute that they thought they could stop him with an electric shock. “It’s time for you to leave,” he said to Brunski, sounding chillingly calm. “And if you ever try to use that Taser on me, I’ll rip you apart.”

“They’ll put you down!” Brunski blustered.

“Maybe,” Theo said. “You’ll be just as dead.”

Later Stiles would realize that Theo had very good reason to think they wouldn’t kill him—his power was simply too valuable to sacrifice. But at the time it had done something to him, hearing Theo stand up to Brunski. Stiles had lost track of how long it had been since Harris was killed, but it was at least a year. After a while living in a state of perpetual fear did things to you, to your body. It became a form of muscle memory, almost like hypervigilance, except the opposite. Instead of being constantly ready to fight or fly, you were constantly ready to be beaten down and reduced to a state of abject terror.

And now, just being near someone who clearly wasn’t afraid—it was like he’d been thrown into full heat all of a sudden. In retrospect, he didn’t even think it was that Theo was an Alpha and definitely not that he was a sexy mother-fucker. Say what you want about Theo—that he was a sociopath, a murderer, a sadist—the only thing Stiles cared about was that he was not afraid. Not something to be proud of, certainly, but knowing what it was to be unmade by fear, Stiles couldn’t really blame himself either.

“This isn’t over,” Brunski snarled, in literally the lamest, most clichéd comeback in history.

“Christ, what a tool,” Theo snorted once he was gone.

“That was awesome,” Stiles couldn’t help gushing. “You should be careful, though—he wasn’t kidding. They just offed two werewolves, shot them in the head, and they hadn’t even done anything that I can tell.”

Theo shrugged, which in retrospect seemed like an odd reaction, but at the time just seemed hot. The Alpha’s eyes flared red. “Man, you smell amazing.”

“Yeah, you too,” Stiles said, sidling closer. “I’ve never actually met an Alpha—not since I presented.”

“So I’d be your first?” he said. Even at the time it sounded smarmy.

“First Alpha, but only if you stop talking and fuck me.” Stiles had no problem sounding like a total slut—nothing but the truth there.

Theo did look surprised at that. “So he wasn’t kidding—are you a little omega whore?”

“Good looks _and_ dirty talk,” Stiles countered. “And the proper word here is slut: whores fuck for money, but you can do me for free.” Snap!

“And feisty too—I like that.” God, they _both_ sounded like they were making lousy amateur porn. But at least with that they began pulling off each others’ shirts, and holy shit was Theo ripped.

The Alpha pushed him roughly against the wall and kissed him hard, which Stiles found sexy as hell. That close together, it was easy to tell that the werewolf was packing—this just got better and _better_. Stiles’ human nose was finally able to get a good whiff of that musky Alpha scent. He felt like he’d never get enough of it, so much that he tried to get his mouth on the werewolf’s neck, just so he could taste it.

Next thing, all the sexytimes screeched to a halt and there was a hand on his throat, and not a gentle one. Like the claws were out and almost but not quite breaking the skin.

Meanwhile, Theo was staring at him, examining him, expression unreadable. Stiles really _got_ then why Brunski had backed down so fast. Theo looked like he was deciding whether or not to rip his throat out. The weird part was that Stiles wasn’t even that afraid, which probably saved his life. In general, he wasn’t primed to be afraid of inmates but even more, the power difference between himself and an Alpha fucking werewolf was just so vast, Stiles genuinely couldn’t compute how anyone could view him as a threat.

“Dude, I’m a human omega,” he gasped out. “What do you think I’m gonna do?”

Theo blinked at him and seemed to realize that he had massively, (dare he say psychotically?) overreacted. “Don’t ever touch my throat,” he said finally.

What’s the phrase? Right: hindsight is 20/20. Seriously, you couldn’t ask for a more obvious red flag. So of course, instead of getting as far from this disasterpiece as he could, Stiles got even more turned on.

“Sure dude, whatever. Are we still doing this?” Stiles was under no illusions about how fucked up he was, but he still couldn’t believe he’d said that.

Theo answered by grabbing his wrists in one hand and forcing them to the side. Keeping his grip on Stiles’ throat, he kissed him again, hard. Message received: the Alpha was in charge.

Theo had not lost his erection the whole time, another red flag that Stiles opted to view as sexy. Finally the Alpha pulled away. “Present for me, omega.”

Whoa, more of the porn dialogue—apparently Theo had seen some of the same videos Stiles had.

A little voice chose this moment to remind Stiles that having sex with an Alpha carried special risks for his kind—pregnancy was the big one, though he was on heat suppressants, but possessiveness was another. Alpha werewolves were especially risky. They mated for life—literally. Thanks to the shared healing, if one partner died, the other almost always died immediately, especially if the partner was a human omega.

Given those risks and that they’d literally just met, Stiles found it really difficult to imagine Theo or any werewolf wanting to mate a human, but he also didn’t know this dude from Adam. And the little voice helpfully pointed out that just as Theo was his first Alpha, he was Theo’s first omega—that explained the bad porn dialogue. As an omega, he really had no clue about Alpha instincts, especially for a werewolf, or how this particular Alpha werewolf would react to “claiming” an omega.

Though it wasn’t really anything to boast about, given the givens, Stiles was kind of proud of himself that he at least spoke up: “Dude, I’m totally down with this, but just so there’re no misunderstandings: I don’t do exclusive.”

“Did you think we were getting mated?” Theo smirked.

“You’re the Alpha. You guys are the ones who get possessive.”

“Understood. Now, hands and knees. Don’t make me tell you again.”

Stiles had no idea how serious Theo was in his vaguely threatening language, but he had no problem obeying. He’d never submitted during sex before, and now thanks to Theo’s Alpha mojo, he was as turned on as he’d ever been in his life.

Not that he was totally prepared to “get bred” like this was the middle ages or something, but at least he was getting the full experience, right? In keeping with the ye-olde-tymes vibe, Theo gripped his neck and forced his head down. He still shuddered at the memory of that monster Alpha cock plunging in. Stiles had no choice to but to take it, and no joke, it was glorious.

And to Theo’s credit, he might have been copying porn, but he totally committed to the role of demanding Alpha. He refused to let Stiles touch himself, growling that he would come on his cock—which was _not_ going to be a problem, even before Stiles felt a telltale tightening in his passage. It was happening: he was being knotted. His libido ramped up to eleven—and then to eleven million. He was almost sure he screamed and then his whole body convulsed. It was like every orgasm he’d ever had condensed into one: it was the neutron star of orgasms, and it—Just. Didn’t. Stop.

Remembering it, Stiles really couldn’t blame himself that much for getting involved with the werewolf. He was a horny little shit anyway, but sex was also pretty literally the only thing at Eichen that made life worth living, and he fucked or got fucked as often as he could. But with Theo for the first time he got to experience sex as an omega, and it really did feel like a crucial part of himself was finally waking up. Privately, Stiles thought that was more than enough justification for him. If he’d been telling Chris or a therapist, he’d have emphasized that he’d met Theo a few weeks after Heather died, and immediately after the single most traumatizing experience he had at Eichen, not even counting the damage two years in the facility had already done to him.

But while his own part was easy enough to understand, he couldn’t always stop himself from wondering what Theo had thought of him that day—what their relationship would have been if they’d only ever met in the physical. Would it have just been that one time? Would Theo have found a spot on Stiles’ rotation of Eichen fuck buddies? Or would Stiles have listened to Lydia’s banshee hoodoo warning that Theo was “drenched in blood,” and stayed away?

It was the most pointless brand of counterfactual handwringing, but he couldn’t always stop himself.

Because of course, they hadn’t just met in the physical realm. That night, Stiles had opened his eyes to see Theo standing over his bed and said, “Theo? How’d you get in here?”

And there was the nail: that stupid, ordinary question. Stiles had known literally nothing about Astral—he had no idea that most people couldn’t say their own or other people’s names—that they experienced Astral as some psychedelic alternate reality completely divorced from the details of their physical life—that they had no ability to hold onto the specific details of their OBEs.

“You back for round two, big guy?” he’d asked, trying to slide over in his bed, not really caring if they woke up his psycho roommate, Oliver.

Theo had stared at him for what felt like a full minute.

“Theo? You okay?”

Theo had blinked a few times and then smiled like he was delighted, an expression Stiles later recognized as extremely dangerous. “O babe, there is so much I am going to do to you,” the werewolf had said, and it had actually sounded really sexy. And then Theo had taken his hand, and that’s when he realized they were actually both in Astral.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite an altogether hellish night, Stiles was up, dressed in the new clothes Chris had bought him at Target, and ringing his boss’ doorbell at 6:15 on the dot. He decided this was a good omen: by rights he should be curled up on his bed in the midst of a panic attack about his first day of work, but like yesterday, he was too fucking hungry.

That was the extent of the auspicious portents, however, because once again it was Peter who answered. “Good god, you look awful,” he said by way of hello. The werewolf took a deep sniff. “What on earth?—Chris didn’t leave you like that!”

Stiles turned deep red. For his “punishment” for trying to avoid him, Theo had teased him for hours the previous night, until by the time he woke up, just the thought of cumming made him feel sick.

“Uh, Chris said I could have breakfast before we left—if that’s, uh, okay,” he said, hoping to get off the topic of his Astral-induced blue balls.

Peter rolled his eyes as if he couldn’t believe this was his life but at least he moved back to the kitchen. “Chris got called in early,” he was saying. “He asked me to drive you.”

“Oh, sorry,” Stiles muttered.

“Do you ever stop apologizing?”

Probably not. In fact, he desperately wanted to apologize again, and only stopped himself by biting his lip.

“Eggs okay?” the werewolf asked. “I meant to tell Chris to ask if you have any food allergies.”

Stiles could only stare stupidly.

“Hello? Are you there, omega?” Peter snapped his fingers in front of Stiles’ face.

“Uh, sorry, I mean, no, no allergies.” He forced himself to sit down at the kitchen table. Peter was shaking his head, but he put a plate down in front of him with two poached eggs resting on toasted English muffins, along with two strips of bacon and a generous helping of fried potatoes.

Stiles muttered a thank you. Luckily Peter left him alone to eat. The breakfast was delicious, the best thing he’d ever eaten except for last night’s dinner. He inhaled it in about 75 seconds, after which he immediately began panicking: what was he supposed to do with his dish? Should he wash it? Leave it where it was? Put it in the sink? He had no idea what normal people did, or what might make Peter slightly less pissed off.

Since Peter hadn’t come back, he decided to wash it—that was being helpful, right? Like a good, non-train-wreck tenant?

He carried it up to the sink and turned on the water, but then had another wave of anxiety: he’d never washed a fucking dish. This was how incompetent he was. What if he broke it? Was there some kind of soap he was supposed to use?

He was startled as Peter shut the water off. “What are you doing?” he hissed as he snatched the plate out of Stiles’ hand and put it in the dishwasher.

“Uh, sor… I mean, thank you for breakfast, it was delicious.”

The Alpha was standing close enough that their shoulders brushed.

And he’d put on a leather jacket.

Jesus fuck. How big of a masochist was he? He could not be attracted to this asshole.

But he was—if he’d had a hope in hell of it working, he’d have gone down on his knees that moment and begged to suck the Alpha’s cock.

“Good god, not again!” Peter snapped.

“Sorry, please, just take me to work,” he begged.

“This is unbelievable,” Peter muttered as he grabbed a bunch of keys from a hook on the wall and headed for the front door.

Stiles slumped after him, wishing he could somehow shrink down, disappear into nothing. It was obvious this whole arrangement was a complete failure. He was a psychic omega with an incarcerated mate, no high school diploma, and no life skills. He’d only been let out of Eichen because Chris could provide a semi-supervised living situation.

He knew Chris had promised not to send him back, but what other option was there? He wouldn’t last a day on his own. He didn’t know how to wash a dish, and he couldn’t spend one minute with Chris or Peter before he was behaving like the proverbial omega in heat.

Peter locked up the house and flicked the button on his key fob, lighting up a black BMW parked just down the block from the townhouse.

For some stupid reason, the car felt like the last straw. There was no way Stiles belonged in a BMW—any more than he belonged in a fancy townhouse, or a job with PsyCrime.

He hunched down in the seat, trying not to touch anything, wishing he could ignore Peter seething in the seat next to him. The office was only ten minutes away—Chris had pointed it out when he was driving him home from Eichen the day before, a totally non-descript suburban office park with a warehouse behind, like they were hiding in plain sight.

Sadly, ten minutes was more than enough for him to totally lose his shit. By the time they pulled into the parking lot, Stiles’ face was covered with tears. Peter’s eyes were glowing red and he had a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. As soon as he parked, he jumped out of the car, slamming the door and pulling out a cell phone. “You need to come to the door now!” he barked.

Stiles tried but he couldn’t get out of the car—couldn’t face what was waiting for him—Chris, his new colleagues….

Finally Peter opened the door, pulled him out and walked him over to a side door. Chris opened it from the inside and Peter pushed Stiles towards him. “Here, you deal with this,” he snapped.

“Sorry, sorry,” he sobbed. “I don’t know what’s wrong, I’m so sorry.”

Next he was enveloped in Chris warmth, his scent. It felt great—almost as great as sucking his dick would feel, but he was not going there on his first day of work.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Chris murmured, all sympathy.

“How is this okay!” he finally looked up and realized they must be in Chris’ office. “He can’t stand me; just being in a room….”

“Peter is like this with everyone…”

“It’s not his fault. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Stiles, you were locked up in an institution when you were sixteen. For three years every decision was made for you and you had no control over your life. This is going to take some time.”

“It’s not fair to Peter—he obviously hates that I’m an omega.”

“Hate is much too strong. Stiles, listen to me; he feels guilty that he keeps triggering you, and he has no idea how to comfort an omega, which is also irritating him. And I’d say that seventy percent of his problem is that you’re mated to Theo Raeken, and even he knows that’s not your fault.”

“Is he afraid Theo might come after you?”

“Definitely not. It’s something to do with werewolf politics.”

“What?”

“You’d have to ask Peter.” Chris gave him a knowing look. “Or Theo Raeken.”

His entire body flinched, of course giving Chris the answer he was looking for. “Fuck you,” he croaked, panic attack abruptly derailed by fury. Of all the secrets Stiles had kept over the years, by far the most important was the one he shared with Theo: that they were both completely lucid in Astral.

He was too angry to stay in the room—he got up and went into what must be the main hub of PsyCrime: it was a cavernous rectangular space, with a small kitchen and dining area at the far end, scattered desks, and in the center a square conference table that probably seated 20 people, with a white board and three crime boards arranged around it, with four photographs, clearly taken postmortem, and names in red ink underneath, Marco, Lucas, Josh, Corey, along with dates starting in July, followed by August, September, and October.

Chris came out, putting on a jacket. “Erica, good, you’re here.” Stiles realized that there was a blond woman sitting with her feet up on one of the far desks. Upset as he was, he couldn’t help ogling a little. No joke, she was crazy gorgeous, like a old-style pin-up from the seventies. She waved, at the same time letting her claws extend—got it, werewolf.

“Stiles, I’m sorry about that, but I really need you out in the field right now. Lydia’s found a body—are you okay to work?”

“Uh, I guess…” What the fuck! A minute ago he’d been having a breakdown in the dude’s office, and now he was being sent out into the field, just like that, no training, nothing?

It suddenly occurred to him that it was awfully like Chris had deliberately asked him a triggery question in order to jar him out of his panic attack?

If so, _fuck him_ —but maybe also, _thanks_?

“Excellent,” Chris nodded. “This is Erica Reyes, your new partner. Just follow her lead. Erica, this is Stiles, our new medium—make sure he gets wherever he needs to be, preferably before any psychic residue gets contaminated by N.P.s. Everyone else is meeting us there.”

“Okie Dokie,” she said, moving towards the door. “You want to drive or should I?”

“Uh, I don’t drive,” Stiles said, scrambling to follow her.

He’d gotten his license a few months before he was admitted to Eichen, not that he had any idea where it was or if it was still good. But it didn’t matter. He’d realized yesterday when Chris drove him home that there were ghosts at most of the major intersections, victims of various accidents. Beyond the sheer distraction of it, the idea of just plowing through them with a car made him sick to his stomach. Worse, depending on the light, some ghosts were hard to tell from the living: it’d be just his luck that he’d run over some poor pedestrian, thinking they were a ghost.

“Yes!” Erica did a little dance. “My old partner insisted on driving everywhere—I mean I only hit the one person.”

That broke through Stiles’ haze. “Are you serious?”

“Dude, no, I’m a great driver. Boyd was just a control freak.” She led him out to the parking lot to a grey Camry, as non-descript as their office building.

“So where are we going?” he asked, as they pulled out.

“Lydia found a stiff over at the Park and Rec. fields. Might be our guy.”

“Our guy?”

“Serial killer—targeting supernaturals, mostly homeless teenagers.”

“The ones on the crime board?”

“Yeah, this would make number five.”

“Holy shit.” He’d known PsyCrime was a big deal, but they were putting him on a serial killer? Stiles Stilinski, late of Eichen House? “Isn’t that more the FBI’s kind of thing?” he asked.

Erica actually growled. “That or the police—technically our jurisdiction is psychic crimes, but Chris has this way of quietly stepping in when the vic is a supernatural.”

“Because the police don’t give a shit?”

“Bingo. I mean usually the packs police their own, but none of these vics were pack-affiliated, and most of them were runaways, so the packs don’t care and the police don’t care. On a cheerier note, am I right that our revered boss was practicing his interrogation techniques on you?”

“What?” he snapped his head around.

“Chill, his office is soundproofed, but I know the look. It’s this trick he does—says something and then watches for your reaction. When he and Peter do it together, they’re basically like a walking truth serum. I once saw them question this dude, and I swear he didn’t say a single word but they managed to get everything they needed, Chris shooting questions at him and Peter listening to his heartbeat. You should have seen Lydia her first few days—we were taking bets whether she’d lose it and blow out our eardrums with one of those banshee screams.”

“Jesus.”

“Of course, Chris mostly wanted to know about you.”

“Great, I really need him to stop before he gets everyone killed.”

“Chris can take care of himself, and Peter’s probably the most deadly wolf in America, so I wouldn’t worry too much. He knows you’ll figure out how to block him in a day or two, so he’s getting everything he wants right away.”

“So Lydia told him about me? How bad was it?”

“She’s not your biggest fan, but most of her problem has to do with your mass-murdering mate.”

“Everyone knows about that?”

“That he went on a rampage at Eichen and took out two doctors and three orderlies?” she said sweetly. “Yeah, I might have heard a rumor: dude, this is PsyCrime.”

Except that her words actually indicated that she didn’t know that Valack and Jennifer Blake had been killed in their homes while asleep—i.e. while Theo was in Astral—which after all was the key point. Chris knew: he assumed Peter did too. Either way, someone was capable of some serious information suppression. Probably whatever shadowy government agency funded Eichen House, the same one that promised to charge him with _treason_ if he violated any of the twenty different non-disclosure agreements he signed to be able to get the fuck out of there.

Stiles figured since Erica was so chatty he might as well mine her for information since it would be a cold day in hell before he asked Peter or Theo. “Hey, Erica, Chris said something about werewolf politics—any idea what he meant?” She gave him a pointed look. “Uh, did I say something wrong?”

“Sorry, look, werewolves prefer to keep their affairs to themselves.”

“You mean from humans? But Chris is mated to a werewolf.” And so was he, much as he wished he could forget it.

“Yeah, but that’s part of the problem. It’s okay if you’re an omega, since you guys are supposed to be all obedient and stuff.” She winked at him. “But Chris is an Alpha. Most wolves and plenty of humans disapprove of that and Peter only got away with it because no one can beat him in a challenge.”

“Wow, that’s…I don’t even know.”

“Seriously. Look, _I_ don’t really care, but the rest of the wolves on the team do, so I wouldn’t ask them anything, okay?”

“Sure, sorry.”

“It’s fine. If Chris was mentioning werewolf politics, he was probably referring to the… _tension_ between born vs. bitten wolves.”

“Bitten wolves?”

“Look, me, Jackson, Isaac, Boyd—all the werewolves on our team were bitten when we were teenagers, so basically we’re the equivalent of werewolf trash. Peter likes to call PsyCrime Chris’ island of misfit toys.”

“Fucker.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Peter for you. Peter, you see, is a born wolf, from the Hale pack no less.”

“Hale pack?”

“You seriously have never read a newspaper, have you?”

“No, we were not allowed newspapers or access to the internet or any kind of phone or computer. Television was PBS cartoons or nature documentaries, the most recent book in the library was from 1980, before the Big Reveal on werewolves or psychics.”

“Dude, chill the fuck out. I’d just love to see Peter’s face if he found out you’d never even heard of his pack. The Hales are only the oldest, richest, most prestigious pack in America. They were the major force behind the Big Reveal, back in the mid-eighties.”

“Great, so Peter’s basically werewolf royalty.”

“And the dude’s got the ego to match.”

“This just gets better and better.”

“Are you really living with them?”

“Until Peter kicks me out: does he, like, hate omegas or something?”

“Trust me, no Alpha werewolf hates omegas—they are like werewolf crack—and your scent—dude, it’s like ambrosia, no exaggeration. But you’ve kind of got the whole tragic orphan-boy vibe going, like you’re gonna flinch every time he flashes his eyes. That kind of thing drives Peter crazy.”

“Well I’ll just magically erase the last ten years and then we should be fine.” Erica had the nerve to laugh. “That’s so funny?” he snapped.

“I told you what Peter calls us: the island of misfit toys. Everyone on this team’s a rescue, Stiles. So don’t expect people to pull out the hankies for your sob story. Two days ago you were in Eichen; Today you’re the official medium at PsyCrime—forgive me for thinking you can put up with an asshole born werewolf.”

Stiles smirked but didn’t respond. Erica was a bitch, but some long-buried part of him recognized that she was actually treating him like a person not a basket case. And being pissed off was a hell of a lot better than a panic attack.

“Okay, here we are,” she said as she pulled into a parking lot with a big sign that read _Beacon Hills Parks and Recreation_. “So what’s your deal—how do you need to do this?” she asked.

Stiles just stared at her. “You know this is my first day, right?”

“Hello! Just tell me what you need to do your medium shit: chanting, group prayer, some ritual?”

He shrugged. What could he need?—if a ghost was there, he’d see it. Sometimes they were lucid and you could have a conversation, though those ghosts tended to be complete assholes; sometimes they were too freaked out to even know they were dead. “Uh no rituals—definitely no prayer.” Yuck: dealing with the dead was bad enough without bringing religion into it.

Erica looked puzzled. “The Sacramento medium uses all these candles and chanting and shit.”

Stiles had no idea what to say to that. “Uh, despite what the name said, Eichen didn’t really train us.”

“Yeah, I got that. Well, I guess we’ll go with the well-honed PsyCrime method—how does winging it sound?”

“Sounds like a plan.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Faun Windsong and Captain Warwick are both borrowed from PsyCop--thank you Jordan Castillo Price, you're a genius. 
> 
> I'm pretty sure CSU is a term from the NYPD, but it sounded cool. 
> 
> Also, I've changed the Beacon Hills County Sheriff's department to the Beacon Hills Police Department, complete with precincts, to make it feel a bit more like a major city, where Chris might decide to set up PsyCrime. Parrish is still a deputy, because it's my world and that's what I want.
> 
> So this is a bit long, but I couldn't figure out a good place to divide it, so enjoy!

They walked across a baseball diamond and a soccer field, towards a wooded area with a small shed that was marked off with yellow crime-scene tape. There were two little bunches of people loitering far enough from each other to make clear they were from separate and non-friendly sections of the law enforcement community. On one side there were two men and a woman, all over thirty, one in uniform and two wearing plastic coveralls and carrying various suitcases and equipment: crime scene unit from BHPD, no question.

The other group, also two men and a woman, could have been in high school, and wore clothes that leaned heavily towards “fashion-conscious hipster” rather than the preferred fashion choice of detectives everywhere—ill-fitted, aggressively generic suits.

One person in the hipster group he knew of course: he’d recognized Lydia’s strawberry blond hair the moment he stepped foot in the park. He made a half wave as they got close, which she answered by wrinkling her nose and turning away. So she was still mad. Great. It was annoying seeing that they’d spent more than two years in Eichen together and had slept with each other more times than he could count. Just about now, he really could have used a friend, but Lydia had fucking hated Theo and she hadn’t forgiven him for getting involved with him.

Standing with her, close enough that they just had to be involved, was a ripped blond dude, total jock and crazy good-looking but also sporting a sneer right out of a John Hughes movie—in other words, Lydia’s preferred type. The other guy was _really_ tall, also annoyingly good-looking, with curly hair that was almost pretty—and would totally be Stiles’ type were it not for the pretentious scarf, emo vibe, and sarcastic smirk he shot at him.

“Where’s Chris?” emo-dude asked; he even sounded like an annoyed hipster.

“Hello to you too, Isaac,” Erica said sweetly. Clearly a lot of team spirit in the Beacon Hills PsyCrime unit. “So guys, this is Stiles, our new medium, and my new-and-improved partner, which means I will beat the living crap out of anyone who gives him shit—copy?”

“Whatever,” emo-dude, Isaac apparently, answered.

“Stiles,” Erica said. “May I present my fellow werewolves, Isaac and Jackson, and I believe you already know Lydia, team banshee.” Stiles could tell from Erica’s saccharine smile that she and Lydia were not bosom buds. No surprise there. It had taken Heather—sweet, non-threatening, empathic Heather—to break through Lydia’s shell of popular-girl bitchiness and disdain, just like Heather had broken through Stiles’ shell of loser-dork bitterness. But Heather was dead, and Stiles and Lydia’s friendship was dead with her.

“So what, should we all hold hands and pray or something?” Isaac asked.

“Again with the prayer!” Stiles burst out.

“That’s what that girl from Sacramento—Faun whatshername—did,” Isaac protested.

“Faun Windsong,” Lydia snapped. “She was a level 2. Just go in, Stiles—I already told them you prefer silent prayer--alone. The techs will wait.” Like one tech or ten would make a difference to whether he could see a ghost, but Lydia was giving him a pointed look. Message received: they’d assume their living mojo would disturb the delicate spiritual essences or whatever.

Lydia knew damn well he’d never prayed in his life, but she didn’t know the exact details of what he could do or how he “communed with the deceased”--just like he didn’t know the full extent of her banshee gifts. He could thank the very first ghost he’d seen at Eichen, a dead banshee named Meredith, for the warning that had ended up saving his and Lydia’s lives: _never ever_ admit what you can do; _always_ test below a four; don’t say anything aloud, even when you’re sure no can hear you—remote viewing, it’s a thing.

So this was it: the reason he’d been recruited. He kind of wished Chris was there for the Alpha reassurance, but it was probably better that his maiden run as PsyCrime’s medium not happen under his boss’ scrutiny.

Erica helped him put plastic covers over his shoes and he put on gloves, though he had no intention of touching anything.

He ducked under the crime scene tape and went into the small equipment shed. The only natural light was the anemic glow from the wintry morning light near the doorway, but that only made the blue glow coming from the back more apparent. He vaguely registered the body collapsed against some garden tools. All of his attention was on the image flickering in front of him: a terrified girl, hands up in useless protection, silently begging just as her forehead explodes and she slams back, only for the image to rewind—terror, gunshot, collapse; rewind again, that moment of terror that somehow couldn’t be fully erased, followed by a death that could no longer be prevented, rewind again.

He felt a wave of disorientation. He knew this scene; it was like his own life rewound and he was back at Eichen watching Brett and Lori die. There was something—some lingering taste or aura or residue….

“Stiles! Stiles!” Isaac was above him, shaking him.

“Whah….”

Next the werewolf was lifting him up and carrying him bridal style outside. He was surrounded by people, voices. Lydia—thank god someone who knew how to cover. “Get it the fuck together, Stilinski,” she said, quietly but urgently. There was a sharp scent in his nose that caused his whole body to lurch. He sat up, though he was still leaning against Isaac.

“What the fuck was that?” he croaked.

“Ammonia inhalant—smelling salts,” Lydia answered. Great, he’d just fainted like some 19th century omega virgin. “Can you get up? The less the techs have to gossip about, the better.”

“What? Oh shit….”

“It’s okay, Erica’s dealing with them,” she said.

“Chris is here,” the other guy, Jackson, murmured.

“Go tell him what just happened,” Lydia ordered. To him she whispered, “Don’t say anything until Chris gets here—he’s a nul.” In a loud voice, she said, “What did I tell you about skipping breakfast, you idiot. You’re supposed to be a medium but you get sick at the sight of a dead body!”

That would be the day. “Sorry,” he said, playing along. He knew the drill: cover, cover, cover.

A second later Chris was there, and Stiles nearly wept. Fuck the interrogation: more than anything else he just wanted to lose himself in the Alpha’s arms, which was ridiculous and really not going to help his professional reputation. He had a sinking feeling he’d just set back the omega cause a decade or more, but Eichen had taught him selfishness. Nothing mattered compared to keeping your psychic abilities a secret.

“Easy, Stiles, you’re safe,” Chris said. “Let’s get to the van.”

“Should I tell the techs they can start?” Lydia asked.

“Stiles, should we wait so you can try again?” Chris prompted. Oh, they were asking him? He met Lydia’s eye and shook his head deliberately.

“I’ll tell them,” she said, but Stiles couldn’t help grabbing for her hand. He couldn’t say it, couldn’t beg her not to leave him—that was against every rule of Eichen, but he needed someone who knew him, who got it.

Chris’ non-telepathy was apparently in good working order. “Isaac,” he called. “Tell the techs they can start—we’ll see if we can get a reading once the body’s gone.”

“Sorry,” Stiles mumbled, as Chris and Lydia helped him up.

“Wait til the van,” Lydia hissed.

“It’s okay, Stiles,” Chris said, “but Lydia is right. We’ll have better protection in the van.”

Erica came running up. “You okay, partner?” she sounded genuinely concerned, not like her tough-love act in the car.

“Yeah, totally, just a dizzy spell,” he said. “Humiliating but harmless.”

“We got this,” Chris said. “Go help Jackson.”

Stiles somehow got through the march of shame back across the playing fields, to a large black R.V. parked next to the car he and Erica had driven over.

Chris used a key fob to slide open the side door. Inside was a small mobile tactical center, which Stiles would probably really admire if he were less traumatized.

Chris got him seated on a bench and went to get a bottle of Gatorade and an energy bar. “Here, let’s get some calories in you.” There was a glance between him and Lydia and then he said, “I’ll round up the rest of the team and then we’ll hear your report.”

Was he leaving them together to mend fences? Hug it out?—had he met Lydia? Stiles focused on unwrapping the bar, trying to figure out how he was going to spin what happened in the shed.

“Just tell him,” Lydia said, fetching herself a Perrier from a small fridge. “This won’t work otherwise.”

 _Like fuck._ “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

“When did I ever threaten you? You have a choice, asshole. You can be the newest member of PsyCrime or you can stay the terrified kid Eichen House tried to make you.”

“Like it’s that easy.”

He felt a stinging slap on his cheek. “It’s not easy. You don’t get easy,” she said venomously. “But you survived Valack and Jennifer Blake and Theo fucking Raeken. Now you’ve finally got a chance to pull yourself out of the shit, and you are not blowing it.”

“You do realize that I did not agree to be his mate, right?”

“I’m not an idiot, but you were happy enough to trade yourself for his protection, and no, you do not get a free pass for that. Better you’d have sucked Brunski’s dick than Theo’s.”

“Fuck you, Lydia. And for what it’s worth, I would have promised to suck Brunski’s dick every day for a month if it had gotten me out of one hour with Valack.”

Lydia pursed her lips but didn’t respond to that. They’d all had lines they’d fought desperately not to cross, and they’d all been forced to betray themselves or their friends, whether under Valack’s psychic rape or Jennifer’s “experiments.” All of them who’d made it through had been left holding on to one ugly truth: They could be pushed to do almost anything, and the only lines they didn’t cross were the ones necessary to survival. People like Heather who wouldn’t or couldn’t sacrifice other people didn’t make it.

There were noises outside the van door. “You can trust Chris,” Lydia whispered, meeting his eye. He closed his eyes and nodded, and she actually gave his hand a squeeze.

The van door slid open and Chris, Erica, Jackson and Isaac climbed in. “Can you tell us what you saw in there?” Chris said once they were all settled.

Stiles swallowed, but at a nod from Lydia, he said, “It’s a repeater—almost like a film clip of the moment of death, that repeats in an endless loop. It shows a girl, our age maybe, long brown hair. It looks like she was chased into the shed and then shot point blank in the head.”

“There was no ghost?” Chris asked. Stiles shook his head.

“Well that’s not very helpful,” Isaac protested. “What’s with the fainting act, then? You’re a certified medium. You must have seen ghosts before.”

“Hey, lay off my partner,” Erica snapped at him, claws dropping.

“Isaac’s got a point,” Jackson sneered. “Is this going to happen every time we find a stiff, because it will get old fast?”

“People, tone it down,” Chris said mildly.

“What happened in there?” Lydia knew damn well that he wouldn’t faint at the sight of one repeater. “Stiles,” she punched his arm. “What happened?”

Stiles shuddered, but she was right. He could be a PsyCrime medium, or he could stay an inmate at Eichen, whether he was actually in the facility or not. “It was like Brett and Lori—like, _exactly_ like it.”

“Brett and Lori?” Chris asked.

“Talbot was their last name.” How did Lydia remember this shit? “Werewolf siblings--they were there for a few days with us. According to Stiles, they were gunned down execution-style in one of the basement rooms at Eichen House.”

“The horrors never cease about that place,” Erica said.

“Why do you say it was the same?” Chris asked.

Stiles thought about it. “Look, repeaters are pretty common—most often with accidents. But they’re—I don’t know—empty. It’s just an image, no soul, nothing. When I saw Brett and Lori, I thought it was because they’d given me a psyactive. But I realize now that there was something different about them— it was almost like I could feel the murderer, not as a presence but as an absence. I’d never felt that anywhere else, but I felt that exact thing—that absence--just now.”

He knew he wasn’t expressing it clearly, even before Isaac snapped, “That sounds pretty fucking _woo woo_ to me—and also useless.”

“Hey, it’s his first day,” Erica snapped.

“Is it something with werewolves?” Lydia mused. “They usually can’t be psychic—maybe they don’t produce ghosts?” Stiles wasn’t actually sure about that—he didn’t think he’d encountered any other dead werewolves.

“Vic’s not a werewolf,” Jackson put in.

“The fuck?” Erica turned on him.

“It’s a kanima,” Jackson said.

“You didn’t even go into the shed. I didn’t catch that…”

“Well, gee, imagine that!” Jackson sneered.

“Isaac,” Chris interrupted. “You were in the shed—did you catch anything?”

“No, but my nose isn’t as good as Jackson’s. If he says it’s a kanima, then it is.”

“A kanima is very hard to kill,” Chris said. “Did you pick up any trace from the bullets—wolfsbane or another toxin?” There was a general shrug. “Damn it.” He picked up his phone. “Hi, Joe, I’m sorry, but I really need my people in there now, before your people clean everything up…. Yeah, I know, but there might be scent evidence key to this investigation… Yes, I will clear it with Warwick.” He ended the call. “Go, all three of you. See if you can catch anything: the murderer, witnesses, toxins, any scent trails to or from the shed.” The wolves nodded and left.

“Tension with BHPD?” Stiles said.

“In order to secure their cooperation, we made a deal that only one of our people would examine the scene before CSU got in there, but of course we’ve already had two.” Chris shook his head, which seemed a pretty chill reaction to the idiocy of bureaucratic turf wars. “Would it help you to go back in? I understand you were only in there for a few seconds before Isaac sensed that you were in distress.”

“He sensed it?”

“Isaac was an empath before he was bitten,” Chris explained. “And he’s kept some of his abilities.”

Stiles was opening his mouth to question how that worked, when Lydia hit his arm. “The shed—do you want to go back in? If the vic is a repeater that means there’s no ghost, right?”

“There’s no ghost—there was never a ghost.”

“You know that?” Chris sounded surprised.

“It’s kind of an either or thing, never both; usually murders produce ghosts,” he shocked himself by volunteering information that had not been specifically asked for. He hoped Chris didn’t think too hard about how he would know that given that his psychic powers had manifested one day before he’d been put in Eichen.

“I could go back if you think it would help,” he offered. Preferably after lunch—or tomorrow, when he’d not spent a whole night being punished by Theo in Astral.

“That can wait until you’re not about to faint,” Lydia said firmly.

He shrugged. “The repeater’s not going anywhere.”

“Even after the body’s gone?” Chris asked.

“There was one in Eichen that dated back to the forties.”

“And the techs won’t….” Chris started, seeming to grasp the implications of that.

Lydia looked at Stiles in question—she was way too smart not to have guessed the truth. His eyes were burning, but he nodded. It was easier to have her say it. “There’s no need to make sure Stiles gets first crack. You should go back to sending in one of the wolves for the scent trails—they dissipate a lot faster. If there’s a ghost, he’ll be able to see it. Other people don’t have any effect.” It made him sick to hear the words spoken out loud, but he was also relieved to just get it over with. He was fast arriving at the point where if he was wrong about Chris, he didn’t give a shit what happened anymore.

Chris whistled. Of course he understood the implications—that Stiles had to be _a lot_ higher than a level four. “What about this Brett and Lori? Any reason to think they’re connected to our current case?”

“There’s nothing obvious,” Lydia said. “They were werewolves, but it’s a pretty big leap from executing prisoners at Eichen to murdering random homeless teens.”

“Tell me about them,” Chris said.

Stiles looked at Lydia. It was mortifying, but after Valack and Jennifer got there, the bodies started piling up, and his primary concern had been selfish fear for himself, followed by fear for his only two friends. There’d been new ghosts every week from then on, but only one he gave a shit about—Heather’s.

“Werewolves cycled in pretty often, but they almost never stayed for more than a week or so—really just Theo was held long term. If any of the others are dead, I didn’t sense it,” Lydia mused.

“Born werewolves can’t be psychic and most humans lose any gifts after being bitten,” Chris said.

“They were shot--executed,” Stiles said hoarsely. “That definitely wasn’t usual. Harris was—the old director--but everyone else O.D.’d from the drugs they were giving us, or sometimes the orderlies got too rough….”

“Or they committed suicide,” Lydia said, voice cracking. Fuck Heather and her fucking empathy.

“But these two were shot—anything special about them?” Chris asked. There was something soothing about the way he asked: focused, steady; Chris genuinely cared, but somehow he wasn’t overwhelmed by all the shit out there either. Stiles would have given anything to curl up in his lap right now.

“Other than the werewolf part?” Stiles said.

“They were siblings,” Lydia added. “That was definitely not usual at Eichen.”

“If you had to guess, was one of them the likely target?” Chris asked.

“Brett—he was older. Lori was barely fifteen,” Lydia said.

“Uh, one other thing,” Stiles said, with an apologetic look at Lydia. “The day I saw the repeaters was the day I met Theo—he actually came in the room after Brunski let me out. I don’t know when he was admitted to Eichen, but it couldn’t have been very long.” Stiles had never actually made the connection before, but Theo’s arrival, their relationship, had quickly overshadowed everything else.

“You think there could be a connection?” Lydia mused.

“No idea—I never asked him why he was down there.”

“Okay, this is great. I really appreciate it.” Chris said. “I’m well aware of how hard it can be to speculate like this, especially in the face of skepticism, but that’s exactly what we need on this team. People who can make unexpected connections, who don’t rely on stereotypes or always go for the most obvious answer. You should always feel free to throw ideas around, no matter how farfetched they sound.”

“Thank you, sir,” Stiles gulped. Chris caught the “sir” of course and looked at him questioningly. Stiles couldn’t meet his eye: he could only fight this so much. Chris was too close, too dominant, too reassuring. If it had been anyone other than Lydia in there, he could have hidden it better, but they had too much history together.

“Lydia, Parrish is meeting us here—could you see if he’s arrived?”

At least she didn’t seem annoyed, more worried, but she didn’t say anything.

As soon as she was gone, Chris said, “Stiles, what’s going on?”

“I’m sorry—I don’t know how—I’m sure it won’t… after today…”

“ _Omega attend_!” Chris said. “Come here.”

Stiles practically threw himself in Chris’ lap, and before he could stop himself he mashed his face against the Alpha’s neck. But unlike Theo, Chris didn’t mind. He put his arms around him and just squeezed. “What do you need right now?” he murmured. Stiles’ eyes burned. How could he be doing this?—an hour after he got to work. “Omega!” Chris said firmly. “ _Stop punishing yourself now!_ ” Stiles shuddered but nodded. “Listen to me: You are a crucial member of this team, and it is better for everyone if you just take what you need to continue than drive yourself crazy trying to fight it. _What do you need right now?_ ”

“I want to suck you.” He couldn’t stop himself though he could feel his face burning.

“Okay, go ahead.”

Stiles slid down and practically ripped Chris’ pants open.

There was one thing though. “Just…” he started to say.

“What, omega?”

“I mean, you can just relax—you don’t have to do anything.” That was as close as he could come to saying, _I don’t want you to do anything_. Chris looked puzzled and then nodded.

Instead of saying thank you, Stiles just took him deep, taking advantage of that omega lack of a gag reflex. Fuck, he loved this. He felt a little like a junkie getting a hit.

It was the oldest joke in the book: omegas’ desperation to suck Alpha cock. Like that was a bad thing. No question, there was something in the combination of the Alpha scent glands near the groin, the sensation of having something in your mouth, and the submission that affected his kind. But he also knew the secret that the other dynamics couldn’t seem to get their heads around: that sucking cock was a serious power rush. Alphas got hung up on the kneeling but somehow missed the part where the omega was in control of their pleasure. For Stiles it felt like the exact opposite of being fucked: it wasn’t just the traditional omega “breeding” position—head down, ass up--but during sex, the Alpha controlled everything and the overwhelming sensation was helplessness, both physical and emotional. There were times he craved that, true, but not nearly as much as people assumed about omegas.

But sucking cock, the submission was mostly an illusion. He had a strong feeling Theo had guessed that, whether through some Alpha intuition, or more likely from reading Stiles’ aura. Either way, he’d vastly preferred fucking to getting his cock sucked. But somehow Chris had the kind of confidence that wasn’t threatened by letting an omega take control of his pleasure. He’d leaned back and let his eyes close—nothing like last night. As if he’d realized it was okay for him to relax for a minute and just ride this.

As he worked the Alpha’s cock, listening for the tiny groans and signs that he was breaking down Chris’ control, Stiles could feel the stress and anxiety about breakfast, the repeater, the sheer pressure of the his new job, floating away. He could manage this—manage the Eichen PTSD, manage being Peter Hale’s omega tenant and Chris’ level-whatever medium. He could even manage being Theo’s mate. Because he was not helpless. And he fucking rocked at sucking cock—wait, did that rhyme? Weird.

Chris gasped as if to say he agreed. He put a light hand on the back of Stiles’ head, almost like he couldn’t help it, like he couldn’t bear for Stiles to pull off. No risk of that. A moment later his mouth was flooded with Chris’ musky essence, which was fast becoming his favorite thing in the world.

But unlike last night, Stiles didn’t linger. He quickly fastened Chris’ pants and got to his feet to make clear he’d gotten everything he needed—like he wasn’t looking for some reciprocation; he wasn’t. He was turned on but not desperate, and honestly, they’d blown enough time (pun intended) given that the rest of the PsyCrime team was waiting outside.

Chris, however, was still lying there with his eyes closed, which was pretty flattering actually. “Uh, thank you for that,” Stiles said. “I hope it was alright.”

Chris opened one eye at him, as if to say _are you kidding me_? Seriously flattering. Chris shook his head like he was trying to force himself to return to full awareness. “Sorry, I’ve been going since 4am. That felt amazing. Thank you, and thank you for the trust. I don’t know how to say this without sounding greedy or selfish, and I swear I don’t mean this like I’m trying to lay some kind of claim on you, but for your own safety, I’d much prefer that you come to me when you are having trouble managing these urges—at least until you are a little more used to the world outside of Eichen House.”

“Yes Alpha. Thank you.” He respected Chris for saying it like that—being so undemanding--but the truth was that Stiles had zero interest in meeting any other Alphas, let alone getting involved with one. So far his track record with Alphas sucked shit: his first and only Alpha lover had forced a mating bite on him. There was just something about Chris—and it wasn’t just that he was hella sexy. You just knew there were things he’d never do: and the two top items on that list were anything that would harm an omega or anything that might harm a member of his team.

Chris got up and grabbed an energy drink from the fridge and gulped it down, wrinkling his nose a little like he was embarrassed that he might need it. “Okay, that’s better.” His phone beeped and he immediately answered. “Anything?” He paused to listen to whoever was on the line and then said, “Okay, leave Isaac there, but you and Erica come back to the van.” He ended the call. “So are you alright to go to another site?”

“Uh, yeah, sure, whatever you need.”

Chris nodded. “Good boy. I’d apologize for throwing you into the proverbial pool like this, but the truth is that it’s been like this for every new member of the team. And in general, I’d prefer that you be briefed on cases after you make contact with the ghost—that way you won’t form preconceptions. I’d like to keep you and Lydia together, if that’s alright. You seem to be working well together and it would save us time to have both of you check the scene together, she for the body and you for any spiritual activity.”

“Yeah, sure. Of course, whatever you want.”

“You’re okay to keep working with Erica?”

“Yeah, she’s great.”

“Good, I thought you two would make a good team. There is one thing. I promise I will avoid giving you orders, especially because of the complications of our dynamic, but in this case, I need you to obey me: _You may not go anywhere on the job without Erica_. Do you understand, omega?”

His body shuddered at the effect of the Alpha tone. “Yes, Alpha.”

“I’m sorry to take advantage of our dynamic like this, but it’s for your protection.”

“Protection?”

“There has been a rise in anti-psychic sentiment everywhere in recent years, and mediums are especially vulnerable. I don’t want you to worry unduly, but there have been several assassinations tied to religious fanatics who fear that your contact with the dead will contradict their beliefs.”

“Fucking great.” Good to know his hatred of religion was justified—apparently they hated him right back, enough to murder him for his so-called “gift.”

Chris was tapping something out on his phone and then went and slid open the door of the van. Erica, Lydia, Jackson and a young guy dressed in the tan uniform of BHPD were standing far enough off that he didn’t worry that the werewolves had been listening in, assuming the van wasn’t soundproofed, which it probably was.

Jackson sneered and Erica winked, but Lydia just flounced her hair impatiently, exactly the way she would in Eichen when he and Heather were arguing about which superpower they’d want if they were X-men. It was the first moment of genuine relief he’d felt in longer than he could remember—since before Valack.

Chris put a hand on his neck and guided him over. “Stiles, this is Deputy Parrish. He’s our main liaison with BHPD. Jordan, this is Stiles, our new medium.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Jordan said, so politely Stiles wanted to snort with laughter. He’d bet his first paycheck this dude had been a boy scout—he looked like he still could be. Seriously, he looked closer to 14 than 24, way too young to be a deputy. But then again, Stiles was a nineteen-year-old high school drop-out who didn’t know how to wash a dish, so he should probably lay off the judgments.

He realized the deputy had his hand out to do that shaking-hands thing—Stiles forced himself to extend his; he was the PsyCrime medium, a “Law Enforcement Professional.” They did things like shake hands.

But the second he touched the deputy’s hand, he flinched back. “What the fuck are you?” he burst out in a somewhat less-than-professional manner.

“You sensed something?’ Chris asked.

“I heard something—like a tornado or an inferno. Did you get this too?” he asked Lydia.

“Yes,” she said. “We don’t know what Jordan is, just that he’s impervious to fire.”

“Fucking A.”

“Sorry for that,” Parrish said. “I didn’t realize they hadn’t told you.”

Stiles looked at Chris, who raised his eyebrows like he couldn’t wait to hear him complain. So of course Stiles forced his protests down. Chris’ non-apology about throwing him in the pool was beginning to make more sense: obviously it wasn’t some mistake, it was his new boss’ SOP. Fuck.


	6. Chapter 6

Jackson and Lydia took their own car, but Parrish rode with him and Erica, taking the backseat without being asked, which won him points with Stiles, as both an omega and the new guy.

“I’m kind of off the books right now,” he explained to Stiles.

“That liaison title Chris told you?” Erica added, “That’s Chris’ way of saying Jordan feeds us information and runs interference with the local fuzz as needed.”

“Nothing illegal,” Parrish rushed to point out. Which _duh_. Stiles doubted the dude even jaywalked. Even with the little Stiles had seen of his new team, Parrish was an awkward fit _at best_ with Chris’ island of misfit toys.

“So you really don’t know what you are?” Stiles asked.

“No there are some theories: Lydia thinks I might be a Salamander—a shape shifting lizard that’s impervious to flame.”

Stiles couldn’t help admiring that Parrish could say that with a straight face. “Are phoenixes a thing? Because dude, that would be all kinds of awesome!”

“I honestly don’t know,” Parrish answered. “This is all a little new to me. But one thing: the department doesn’t know. I mean they know that I help out PsyCrime, but they don’t know that I’m supernatural.”

“You should just join the team and get it over with,” Erica said.

“I think I can do more good where I am,” he said, firmly but nicely, which made Stiles respect him even more. It was kind of weird, because the deputy was exactly the type of earnest do-gooder he used to mock relentlessly.

The new scene was a small picnic area near Eight-Mile River, just down from an old railway bridge that now served the town’s rails-to-trails bike path. It was probably close to 10am by now, and though it was November, the scene was sunny and inviting: nothing like the creepy shed back at the Park and Rec. fields.

Lydia and Jackson pulled in just after them. Lydia was barely out of the car before she said, “There’s no body—no recent one at least.”

“You’re sure?” Parrish asked, receiving Lydia’s trademark dismissive eye-roll as an answer. “I don’t know why, but there must be something….”

“There’s a ghost,” Stiles said.

“You sense something?” Parrish looked gobsmacked.

“He sees it,” Lydia said. “It’s definitely a ghost this time?”

Oh yeah—ghosts were nothing like repeaters. This one was lurking or whatever ghosts do in the shadows under the bridge. “Um, let me talk to it—him.”

“Whatever jerks your junk,” Erica said—embarrassing Parrish and annoying Lydia, both on purpose.

Stiles made his way down the bank towards the bridge. He’d never actually started a conversation with a ghost before—usually they wouldn’t leave him alone as soon as they realized he could see them. This ghost was a boy, teenager, who looked their age roughly. His clothes and hair were wet, which gave Stiles good clue as to how he’d died.

“Uh, hi, I can, uh, see you,” he said, in a not very impressive start to his career as crime-busting medium.

“Well it’s about time. I’d like to report a murder,” the ghost said.

“Okay.” That wasn’t expected. “Well it just so happens that I am with the PsyCrime unit.” That sounded Professional, right? “Why don’t we start with your name?”

“Matt Daehler—D-A-E… Hey, aren’t you going to write this down?” he said.

“Why don’t I get your statement first?” Stiles wasn’t sure how he popped out with that—had he heard it on some TV show?

But memo to self; he should probably get one of those little notebook things. Also a pen to write with.

Not that it stopped Matt. For, like, the next half hour Stiles was treated to the dude’s whole history with his high school swim team, specifically the 2006 swim team, because that’s how long he’d been dead. Stiles heard about how Sean and Jessica were totally screwing even thought they both had significant others not on the team, and how Bennet snorted coke before meets, and Kara, who thought she was better than everyone else, when she wasn’t even that pretty. _On and on and on_ until _finally_ he arrived at the climax. Basically, the team’s coach had thrown a party at his house just up the road, and they were all drinking and getting high, and poor Matt had gone along for reasons he chose not to elaborate on, though Stiles strongly suspected he’d been stalking this Kara who thought she was so great. And then they’d all gone skinny dipping and they’d been tossing each other into the water, and Matt had gotten thrown in and somehow no one had noticed that he couldn’t swim—and that was it. He’d drowned. Apparently his body was found miles down river, so no one had any idea how he’d actually died.

It all sounded really sad and “I-know-what-you-did-last-summer,” but the truth was half way in, Stiles was fighting not to roll his eyes. The only thing that kept him nodding sagely was the thought that Chris would have heard the kid out without getting impatient. That’s what a Law Enforcement Professional did.

But Matt’s whole sob story was just another reminder of why he hated dealing with dead people. One reason Stiles had so much trouble with religion is that for the most part dead people sucked. It was not like the movies. Death really didn’t bring out anything especially noble and transcendent or even hellish and evil in people. With a handful of exceptions, the ghosts he’d been forced to deal with spent their afterlife worrying about whatever petty shit they’d been worried about just before they died.

In Stiles’ defense, even by the usual standards of pushy, intrusive ghosts, Matt Daehler took the prize. He’d clearly been a whiney creep in life and he was one in death as well. It more than killed off any pity Stiles might have felt that he’d died in such a pointless, tragic accident. Matt seriously expected every member of the swim team along with their coach to be prosecuted for homicide.

But somehow the knowledge that he would have to tell Chris about what happened, “give him a report,” helped him keep up his “Law Enforcement Professional” act.

“Uh would you mind if I called my colleague over to take your statement?” he asked Matt.

“You might have done that before,” Matt said. Fucker.

“It’s my first day.”

“Whatever, so long as they take it down accurately.”

“Of course—they’re professionals,” Stiles forced himself to say.

So Stiles called Lydia over, who dutifully took down the names of the 2006 swim team, and even let Matt check them over to make sure they were accurate because he was literally that much of an entitled douche.

Not that Stiles had a high opinion of this swim team. They were exactly the type of kids he’d most hated during his short stint in high school. But he didn’t see much chance of prosecution. If the accident had been discovered right afterwards, maybe a really good prosecutor might have gotten manslaughter to stick—reckless endangerment?—some swimming version of operating while intoxicated? But this long after the fact, there was no way. But maybe there was some lesser charge--failure to report an accident? Chris would know.

He was fumbling to figure out how to extricate himself—should he thank Matt for his time like he would a living person? Matt had nothing but time. But then something freaky happened: he heard that weird roaring sound and Parrish started walking towards them, only his sweet blue boy-scout eyes were now hellish flames and his body language was all wrong—more like a werewolf MMA fighter, than the Eagle Scout turned deputy.

“You are done here,” some eerie supernatural voice, nothing like Parrish’s, spoke from his mouth. “It is time to move on.”

“Uh, yeah, you’re right,” ghost Matt said. “It’s time to move on.” And then the ghost fucking faded before his eyes.

Holy shit! That had never happened before!

As soon as the ghost blipped out, the roaring sound ended and Parrish collapsed, luckily with Erica and Jackson to catch him, instead of Stiles and Lydia.

Lydia ran to him. “Jordan, Jordan, what happened?”

“Lydia, what—where—what just happened?”

Lydia turned almost accusingly at Stiles. “He spoke to the ghost—told him to move on,” Stiles explained. “I swear, I’ve never seen anything like it.” He’d thought ghosts were like mold in a basement—nothing got rid of them.

“Dude, your eyes were like flames and you had this freaky voice—very _Tales from the Crypt_ ,” Erica said.

“I need to check something,” Lydia said, pulling out her phone, and tapping madly. “You two help Parrish back to the car. Jackson, call Chris and tell him what happened.” Stiles had been obeying Lydia’s orders from the day they met in Eichen House, but he had to admire how fast the two werewolves snapped to it on her command.

“So there was a ghost?” Parrish asked.

“Uh, yeah, a dude named Matt Daehler, drowned in 2006,” Stiles told him as he pretended to help Erica carry Parrish back to their car.

“But nothing to do with the current case?”

“The one on the crime board? They’re all supernaturals right? I don’t really see how,” Stiles told him. “I mean, Matt wasn’t supernatural, and his death was an accident.” A drunken, irresponsible one, for all that Matt claimed it was murder. “How’d you know to come here?”

Parrish actually blushed which was kind of adorable. “I woke up here this morning.”

“No shit.”

“It started back in June. I began sleepwalking—waking up in different spots all over the city. I knew Chris from another investigation, and I hoped he might know why I was doing this. It turns out at the third spot, in Beacon Hills Preserve, there was a body, buried in a shallow grave.”

“That was our first vic,” Erica said.

“For the serial case?” Stiles asked.

“He helped find the other victims too,” Lydia said. “One a month since July.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Jordan said, sounding about 1000% smitten with Lydia—huge surprise.

“Hey, we helped!” Erica protested tapping her nose.

“Well, this is some freaky shit—no joke,” Stiles said.

“Welcome to PsyCrime,” Erica said.

“I was hoping Chris would let me go back to each of the sites with you,” Parrish told him. “There might be ghosts too, we just had no way of knowing.”

“Sure,” Stiles said. It was safe to say that his new life consisted of doing whatever Chris told him to do.

“But that’s why I don’t drive—I got rid of my car because the first two times, I actually drove myself to the scene.”

“So you must have been lucid then—or whatever is possessing you? I mean you’d know if you hit something,” Stiles pointed out.

“It’s much too big a risk,” Parrish said, sounding appalled.

“You should just move in with Jackson and me,” Lydia said. Which whoa—Stiles didn’t know whether it grossed him out or turned him on to imagine that threesome, but did she seriously think the boy scout would go for it?

Jackson came back to the car. “Did you get Chris?” Lydia asked him.

“He said to meet at HQ—you too, Parrish,” Jackson said.

“Well I don’t know about you guys, but I’m starving,” Erica said. “Whatdya say, we hit In-and-Out on our way.”

“Werewolves,” Lydia said. “It’s not even noon yet.”

“Oh, but I’d be happy to get you something.” Erica said, flashing her sugary smile; obviously she was aware that Lydia was a vegetarian.

“I’ll pass, but you should definitely get the bacon double cheeseburger—and make sure to get it _animal_ style.”

Right. Erica’s claws dropped, but before she could move towards Lydia, Stiles grabbed her by the jacket and pulled her towards their car. “Ookay, that sounds great. I for one have not had an In-and-Out burger in three years, and I will definitely be getting mine animal style since that is the only way to eat an In- and-Out burger,” he babbled. “Parrish, In-and-Out?”

The poor guy looked like he’d never seen a cat fight before. “I could go for In-and-Out.”

At least the fiery ghost-busting hell creature wasn’t a vegetarian.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short post today. Longer ones coming, I promise.

An hour later, they were back at “HQ” sitting around the conference table with a dozen In-and-Out bags; apparently there was a regular PsyCrime order, now including Stiles’ animal-style cheeseburger with fries and a strawberry shake.

Along with the members he’d already met, they’d been joined by Erica’s former partner, an imposing dude named Boyd, also a werewolf, who apparently served as Chris’ second in command. He’d learned there were two more members, Danny and Mason, a technopath and an empath, who were both away on some unspecified assignment. Boyd gave them a run-down while everyone scarfed burgers and fries, except for Lydia who was eating something called a miso-tofu noodle bowl.

“So the ME got a hit on our vic’s fingerprints. She got nabbed for shoplifting three years ago, before she was bitten. Name is Tracy Stewart, aged 18, no listed address. Definitely a Kanima. Tox screen will take a few days. That’s all we got so far.”

“Stay on the ME about the tox screen,” Chris said. “We need to know how she was brought down with just a bullet.” “

“You know it’s still less than 24 hours since the murder,” Isaac said. “It’s possible we could still catch a trace of her scent. We could check out some of our old bolt holes. See if we can figure where she’s been living.”

“Good idea,” Chris nodded. “Start with the half-way house Marco Gutierrez was running. It would be really nice if we could find something that linked our vics.”

“Seriously,” Jackson said.

“Stiles,” Chris turned to him. “Can you tell us what happened at the river?” Again with the throwing him into the (metaphorical) pool. Luckily unlike poor Matt Daehler, he was quickly learning how to swim. Parrish, Erica, Lydia and Jackson already knew he could see and communicate with ghosts: was he supposed to object to adding Isaac and Boyd to that number?

“Uh, I don’t think it had anything to do with the case,” he said, without too much stumbling. “I found the ghost—kid named Matt Daehler. He died, drowned, in an accident in 2006.”

“How did you find that out so quickly?” Isaac demanded.

“The ghost told him, dumbass,” Erica said.

That got him a shocked look. “Let’s stay on topic,” Chris said. “Can you explain again what happened with Parrish.”

“Yeah, okay. So after Matt gave his uh, statement or whatever, Parrish sort of turned into this—fire creature? I don’t know, his eyes were flames, and he had a freaky-ass voice, and he told the ghost to move on, and it worked—the ghost faded.”

“Holy shit,” Isaac said.

“Theories,” Chris said, “Stiles, you first.”

He shuddered a little as he forced himself to face a truth he avoided articulating even in the privacy of his own head: that he was probably the most powerful medium in America. Chris wanted people who could speculate. Stiles had something to add here if he could get his head out of his ass. “Well, I can tell you I’ve never seen anything like that before, but if I had to guess? It felt like Matt was waiting to tell his story and once he did, Parrish, or whatever is possessing him, told him to move on, and the ghost obeyed.”

“He’s a Hell Hound,” Lydia put in, turning her lap-top so everyone could see an old-timey drawing of a demonic black dog.

“A what?” Jordan squawked. “I’m from hell?”

“Forget the religious associations,” Lydia said impatiently. “That was just ancient peoples trying to reconcile an existing creature with their own theology. But most traditions tell of a creature, very often a dog, who escorts souls to the afterlife.”

“It makes sense,” Stiles said. “Look, obviously I was uh, you know, locked up, so I haven’t had a lot of time to test it, but it’s not like the air everywhere is thick with ghosts. The ones you see almost always died suddenly or violently—in an accident or because they were murdered—like life was ripped from them before their time. It’s like they’re stuck—they can’t move on until they’ve settled stuff here.” He realized that everyone was staring at him, which made his face burn. “It’s just, it makes sense that there might be something—a force--to help them move on. Like Lydia can find bodies, there would be something that finds souls.”

Chris nodded at him. “That’s excellent work, Stiles. I know we tossed you into the middle of this, and I really appreciate the way you’ve stepped up.”

He could tell Chris meant it, which almost made him want to cry. Though crying would probably have been better than what did happen, which was that the words shot straight to his dick. Alpha praise—he’d known in principle that it affected omegas, but he’d not actually had much experience with it: Theo complimented him plenty—especially his hot omega ass—but that wasn’t really the same; more to the point, Stiles had never for even a second given a shit about Theo’s approval. Chris on the other hand….

“Jesus—get it together,” Jackson said, sounding disgusted.

Isaac took a deep sniff and smirked. “Look at the omega, getting off on Alpha’s praise.”

“Hey,” Erica snapped, slamming her fist on the table. “Lay off my partner.”

“Enough” Chris growled, sounding as close to angry as Stiles had heard him. “That is the last time I want to hear dynamic mentioned by anyone on this team. I realize that this is a new situation for everyone—myself included. It will take some time for Stiles and I to figure out how best to manage dynamic issues at work. If there is something the team needs to know regarding that, I will inform you. In the meantime, I am not interested in commentary and I will not be pleased if I find out there’s been gossip. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Erica said.

“Yes, sir, sorry,” Isaac murmured, actually looking contrite.

“Yes, sir,” Jackson said.

Of course, Chris’ authoritative tone was hitting about every omega button Stiles possessed, and since he now worked with four werewolves, there would be no keeping his responses to himself.

He was startled to feel Lydia’s hand on his. Fuck, that felt even better than Chris’ praise. He really needed her back in his life—someone who had a clue, but who didn’t see him as nothing more than a nut-hatch reject.

The irony was that dynamic had barely registered as an issue for him and Lydia until Theo. She’d occasionally sniffed at Stiles’ and Heather’s penchant for puppy piles and snuggling, but she’d sniffed just as much at their arguments over which of the major Elf realms in _Lord of the Rings_ they’d most want to live in. Stiles knew Lydia prided herself on not buying into the stereotypes about dynamic—after all she was a beta who didn’t have to raise her voice to have an entire team of werewolves hopping to her orders. But her disdain for stereotypes just meant that she was beyond outraged when Stiles basically acted like an omega in heat the moment an actual Alpha showed up at Eichen—and that the Alpha was Theo, who’d done most everything he could to confirm Lydia’s worst suspicions of him.

The weird part was that every second Stiles spent with Chris was making it clearer that Theo barely registered on his omega radar. His bond with his “mate” was 100% due to what they shared in Astral, and no matter how much he trusted Lydia, he loved her too much to ask her to protect a secret like that.

“Okay people. As far as this afternoon goes, Isaac, you’re going to see if you can figure out where Tracy Stewart might have been living.”

“Jackson should go with him—if he got the best read on her scent,” Boyd said.

“You can’t take a human in there,” Isaac protested.

“Erica, can you handle protection for Stiles and Lydia?” Chris asked.

“If they stay together and behave like good little humans.”

“Okay, Jackson and Isaac, you’re together. Lydia and Stiles, I want you to go with Parrish and Erica to start visiting all the sites he went to as a hell hound. See if there are any ghosts—and if the hell hound surfaces.”

There was a general shuffle as everyone got up to toss the In-and-Out bags and head off on their assigned tasks.

“I’d really like a term that did not include the word ‘hell’,” Parrish muttered.

“Well, there’s the Grim—that’s the death dog in Harry Potter right?” Stiles said. “We could call you Sirius.”

“I like Cerberus,” Erica said.

“The Welsh name for you sounds roughly like _Cune Annun_ ,” Lydia said _._ “But unfortunately it’s spelled like this.” She showed them the phrase on her phone: Cwn Annwn.

“Fucking A,” Stiles barked. “How can that even be made into spoken words?”

“That’s Welsh for you.”

“Don’t they have, like, the longest word in the world—some town?” Stiles said, marveling that he’d actually remember a random factoid. He vaguely remembered that he’d known thousands of them in his life before Eichen—and was constantly pestering his foster parents and siblings by bringing them into conversations.

“It’s a town on the island of Angelsey.” Lydia knew of course. “And it has 58 letters. Do not ask me to pronounce it.”

“I still say Cerberus,” Erica put in, obviously uninterested in factoids about Wales.

“Let’s move out, people.” Chris put a stop to the debate over Parrish’s mythical creature name.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shortish chapter. Things are going to start heating up very soon, promise.

So Stiles spent the rest of the afternoon visiting the two more recent sites, from what Erica had apparently nicknamed the “SuperTeen” murders, where Corey Bryant, a chameleon, and Josh Diaz, a werewolf, had been killed. Both had repeaters, which was useful as confirmation but didn’t get them any closer to solving the case. By then the light was failing and everyone was exhausted so they all headed back to HQ.

“No luck on finding where the vic was living,” Jackson told the assembled group at their closing meeting.

“And nothing at the drop-in center?” Chris asked.

“No way,” Jackson said. “We identified two dozen scents, some at least a week old, but no kanima, and no one we talked to knew her.”

“So we are 0 for four on the drop-in center.” Chris shook his head.

“And one for five on addresses,” Jackson said.

When Stiles looked puzzled, Lydia said, “The first vic is the only one whose address we could trace—he ran a drop-in center for homeless supernaturals. We were hoping we could trace one of our other vics back to that same center, but so far we’ve come up empty.”  

“Isn’t that unusual—that there are no addresses I mean?” Stiles asked.

There was a pause and then Erica said, “Bitten wolves mostly don’t have packs and usually their human families don’t want anything to do with them.”

“Makes them easy targets for challenges,” Boyd said. “They tend to stay under the radar.”

Stiles saw the truth in his teammates’ faces. Erica hadn’t exaggerated: they were all rescues. And it was all down to Chris.

“Stiles? Anything at the other sites?” Chris asked.

He blinked, realizing it was the second time he’d asked. “Sorry. So yeah, both had repeaters, exactly the same as at Tracy Stewart’s scene. If I had an actual reputation I would stake it that it was the same perp,” Stiles said.

“ _Perp_ : listen to you,” Erica teased. “Chris, our baby has become a PsyCop.”

“Yeah, and we already knew that.” Isaac of course. Stiles had yet to hear him say a single non-bitchy thing.

Chris as always was remarkably chill about his team’s style of banter. “And the hell hound didn’t surface?”

“Yeah, Parrish didn’t have any effect on the repeaters,” Stiles said.

“Theories,” Chris said nodding at Stiles.

“They’re not ghosts, more like photographs of a murder scene. There’s nothing for him to send away.” Not that he wouldn’t mind something that could get rid of repeaters.

“But he knew about those bodies too, right? Even though there wasn’t a ghost,” Boyd pointed out.

“Yeah, um, that’s a really good point.” It was obvious why Boyd was Chris’ second. Dude had a gift for slicing through garbage to get to the main point. Chris raised his eyebrows at him. Right, more speculating. “I think the hell hound doesn’t like bodies or souls that go undiscovered?” Stiles said slowly. _Look at me boss, speculating!_ “It wants them found and dealt with.”

“Yay, more of the _woo woo_ ,” Isaac sneered.

“Yeah, well this is PsyCrime, jerkface,” Erica shot back. Stiles was already half in love with her, and never more than when she was shooting down Isaac.

“I agree with Stiles,” Lydia said pointedly.

“Okay,” Chris said. “Great work today, everyone. And as a thank you, unless there’s another body, let’s meet up here--9am.”

There was a round of cheers at that and Erica shouted, “Yes! Who’s the man!”

“Please use it to catch up on sleep, not to hit the clubs: I expect everyone in here fresh and rested, _on time_.”

“You got it, boss,” Isaac said.

“Sure, Chris,” Erica said, blowing him a kiss.

“I just need a moment—then we’ll head home,” Chris told Stiles as he took out his phone.

“See you tomorrow, Stiles,” Lydia said as she left with Jackson.

“Night, Lydia,” he said.

Chris was quiet as they drove home. He looked exhausted. Stiles suspected he was really worried about this case, which was understandable: Five murders, and they’d not gotten a single clue or piece of physical evidence, just Stiles’ non-hunch that it was the same person, which they already knew.

Stiles had seen so much death he found it hard to feel anything unless he knew the person. Right now his main feeling was amazement at how different his drive to work with Peter had been: he’d never in a million years imagined his first day would end up going so well.

“Peter said he made a braise,” Chris said, as they pulled up to the house. “You’re welcome to join us for dinner.”

He was sure Peter was just dying to have him. “Yeah, no thanks, I’m beat,” he said.

Chris nodded. “Hold on a second then,” he said, as they got out. “I’ll fix you up a plate.”

Chris was back in less than 30 seconds with another foil-covered plate—it was so fast that Peter must have had it waiting. Big surprise, the invite was Chris’ idea. He doubted the werewolf was eager to have his gracious home polluted with Stiles’ offensive omega horniness.

But as he took the plate back to his apartment, the first thing he noticed was a new microwave installed above the stove. And then the “braise” turned out to be mouthwatering slices of pork, surrounded by apples and onions over mashed potatoes; like everything else Peter had made, it was beyond delicious.

There was only one conclusion: he was being a brat. This was the third meal Peter had made for him. An Alpha cooking for an omega: it was a favorite joke in lousy sitcoms—usually involving visits by the fire department because of course Alphas didn’t know how to turn on a stove without burning down the house, but otherwise Stiles wasn’t sure he’d ever heard of that actually happening. And it wasn’t like Peter could burn water: the dude was like a gourmet chef.

But that did not mean he wanted to deal with him. He’d had a good day and had no desire to kill his current buzz by trying to get through a meal with his royal werewolfness.

Probably more important, he didn’t want to put off dealing with Theo. Last night had sucked shit, but Stiles knew he’d been too tired and freaked out to manage his ‘mate.’ He could get Theo to stop, but he had to really mean it, which was more complicated than it probably should have been. Stiles’ self-esteem wasn’t exactly healthy on his best day, and more than anything, Theo was an expert at exploiting peoples’ weaknesses. And that didn’t even take into account Stiles’ omega tendency to get off on being punished.

He put his dish in the sink next to last night’s—he should probably bring those back up. He took a longish shower and brushed his teeth, shucked his clothes except for his boxers, and then got in bed. It was only 9:30 but he was tired and was happy to get in some REM before Theo found him in Astral.

Except that like the previous night, he’d barely closed his eyes, when he was ripped into Astral, much faster than usual.

“What the fuck, man,” he said. “Are you sleeping round the clock?” Last night it hadn’t surprised him: Stiles knew Theo would be freaking out that he couldn't find his little omega mate. But Theo had extracted a promise that Stiles wouldn’t try to avoid him again. It was hard to even form the intent to break one of those.

“They’ve got me drugged.” Theo made it sound like no big deal, but Stiles knew that the enforced inactivity was brutal for a werewolf.

“Sorry,” he said.

Theo looked surprised. “Is my mate actually concerned? I figured you’d be furious about last night.”

“Don’t call me mate. Have I ever once liked it when they hurt you?” He grabbed Theo’s hand and pulled him closer. “Seriously, I don’t want to fight tonight. I’m too tired.”

In a blink they were lying on a huge bed in an apartment they’d been to before—Stiles had no idea where it was, who owned it. He’d learned very early on never to ask. Theo leaned back, and Stiles snuggled up in the crook of his arm. “Are you okay?” he asked. No lying in Astral.

“I’ll be okay,” Theo said—which meant he wasn’t okay. Theo couldn’t lie here—no one could—but his power let him give deliberately evasive answers. Stiles had spent so much time here by now to know just how fucking crazy that was. There was something about Astral that almost compelled you not just to tell the truth but to expose it; like your soul simply couldn’t bear to hide any part of itself here. It took all of his energy just to refuse to answer a question or withhold information, let alone give an answer designed to hide the truth.

“Theo….”

“It’s fine. They’re not going to kill me—you don’t have to worry.”

“Damn it, Theo, I’m not worried about myself,” Stiles couldn’t help saying.

“Shh, babe, I know. Today was bad. I’ll be okay. Tell me about your day.”

Stiles would have to answer, but luckily he had a larger truth that took precedence. “Promise me you won’t come after Chris and Peter, or anyone on PsyCrime.”

Theo tugged at his hair. “Brat, you have some nerve to ask that of me.” Which meant he was having trouble saying no. Today was more than bad. He must be really weak.

But there were times the honesty in Astral worked to Stiles’ advantage, and now was one. “I need it, Theo.”

Theo kissed the top of his head. “As long as they keep you safe.”

Why couldn’t it always be like this? Stiles knew these moments didn’t excuse the toxic shit he had to put up with—the menacing, the manipulation, the controlling, and whatever last night was—punishment? Like Stiles had some obligation to obey him? But being in Astral meant he also couldn’t lie to himself about how much he hated it when Theo was hurt.

“Tell me something—anything,” Theo said, closing his eyes. God, this was bad. Stiles would have given anything to be able to see auras like Theo could.

“Fuck, Theo, there’s no way this is just sedatives….”

“Stiles!” he growled. “It was wolfsbane.” It was obvious Theo hadn’t wanted to tell him that. “Stop asking about it.”

Stiles winced, reminded of how often Theo’s mood could change on a dime, of the times he’d used the threat of his anger to intimidate Stiles. Stiles wasn’t afraid of him—not really—but he was an omega, and even in Astral it was hard to deal with an angry Alpha.

“Please, babe,” Theo said, picking up on the new chill between them. “Just tell me about your day—just, it helps, your voice.”

It was the best he was going to get: Theo had promised while in Astral, which almost definitely meant he had no interest in Stiles’ new colleagues—and why would he? Stiles could admit that his mate was a strange mix: he definitely got off on fucking with people, but he’d never physically hurt anyone until that night.

From all accounts it had been really bad--after he killed Jennifer and Valack in Astral, Theo had murdered three orderlies, literally ripping them apart until the bodies were unrecognizable. It bore all the hallmarks of a frenzied werewolf bloodbath, except that Stiles knew it hadn’t been. Not when he saw who the victims were: Brunski, Nurse Cross, and Schrader. They were by far the worst offenders at Eichen. There was no way that could be random. Theo had made it look like he was out of control, which was the final proof for Stiles that he’d been in complete control of himself for both the murders and the mating bite. Stiles’ only question was _why that night_ when he’d gone more than five months there without actually hurting anyone.

He forced those thoughts aside for now. Just thinking about the bite made him too angry, and he genuinely didn’t want to fight about it tonight--it wasn’t like there was anything new to say. He’d had a good day, and right now he was going to pretend this was a normal relationship, where he and his boyfriend lay in bed and told each other about their day.

“Okay,” Stiles said. “Well it started off sucky. I guess Chris’ werewolf mate, Peter, hates your guts. He made me breakfast, but he got pissed at the omega hormones stinking up his place.”

“Peter Hale?—he’s a grade-A asshole.”

“You know him?”

“Of him. Keep going.”

“So he drove me to work and I kind of freaked out, but then I met my new partner, Erica. She’s cool; she’s a werewolf. And so we went to this crime scene, and there was a dead kanima there, and there was a repeater, but no ghost.”

“Kanima? They’re really hard to kill.”

“That’s what Chris said.”

“You like Argent.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah—he’s a good boss.”

“Did he fuck you yet?”

“No, but I blew him again, at work this time.”

“Sounds kinky. How was it?”

“It was awesome. I am an omega—there is nothing I love more than sucking cock.”

“Keep going.”

“Well, I think I helped them. There was something at the scene with Tracy, like a residue—I think it was the killer.”

“Tracy?”

“That’s the kanima. Anyway, I think the same person who killed Brett and Lori, killed her.” _He did?_ That was news to Stiles. He realized he’d held back from going that far because he felt embarrassed—it just sounded too farfetched, no matter what Chris had told him. But this was Astral, so he must really believe that. He hoped he remembered it in the morning. “Hey Theo—you remember when we met?”

“Course, babe.

“Why were you down there?”

“Maybe I smelled a hot omega.”

That was an evasion! His head snapped up. “Theo, why were you down there?” he pressed.

“I smelled werewolf blood.” Theo sat up. “There’s something happening outside.”

The next thing, Stiles was waking up to his alarm at 8am.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So bonus chapter today--another short, "day-in-a-life" at PsyCrime before events start to heat up. 
> 
> (Also, I made real progress on the finale today so I'm not as worried about any delays posting the final chapters.)

Stiles couldn’t help a few minutes of lingering worry about whatever had pulled Theo out of Astral last night, but then again, Stiles was fine, so whatever it was couldn’t be that bad. And though he would never forgive Theo for biting him without asking, Stiles didn’t worry much about dying because of it. If nothing else, he trusted Theo’s ability to manipulate situations to his advantage. They hadn’t killed him after he murdered Valack and Jennifer Blake. That could only mean one thing: someone with a lot of influence wanted him alive, which was not surprising given how powerful Theo was in Astral.

Stiles managed to get through his second morning without any freakouts, maybe, _possibly_ due to the fact that it was only Chris at breakfast. He didn’t say if Peter was out or hiding upstairs, only that he’d left them something called a ‘frittata,’ a weird egg pie with cheese and broccoli, which apparently could be eaten at room temperature. It sounded gross, but of course tasted almost as delicious as the “braise,” though not as good as the pasta thing from the first night.

Driving to work with Chris in his less intimidating Prius as opposed to Peter’s monster BMW also helped. Boyd, Lydia and Jackson were already in the office when they went in, and Erica and Isaac came in a few minutes later, as well as the final two members of the team, a technopath named Danny, who specialized in detecting cyber attacks, and an empath named Mason. Both seemed to fit the apparent PsyCrime policy of only hiring ridiculously hot people in their late teens or early twenties. But unlike the rest of the team, Danny and Mason were both actually friendly. In fact, too friendly for Stiles’ taste.

“Stiles right?” Mason gushed. “It’s _so_ great to meet you—I’ve read a lot about mediums, well psychics in general. Did you know that….” Stiles could practically see the facts and figures bursting to spew out. But unfortunately for both him and Mason, psychic abilities were one of the few topics he wasn’t curious about: three years of incarceration and torture for his gift did that to a dude.

Luckily Chris intervened. “Okay people, let’s get started.” As soon as everyone was seated around the conference table for what he gathered was their usual morning meeting, Chris said, “Okay Danny, Bill tells me that you guys are ready to move.”

“Yeah, this is it, guys,” Danny said. “It will be our biggest bust yet.”

Stiles perked up at those words which sounded almost like a TV show, and made him picture car chases and man hunts. Unfortunately the reality was somewhat less scintillating: the “big case” involved a ring of psychics who were trying to manipulate the California State Lottery, which wasn’t something Stiles could make himself care about. And then Mason started detailing how they solved it, which mostly involved complex statistical analyses that only a mathlete like Lydia could even hope to follow.

Since they were preparing to make arrests, Chris assigned all the werewolves except Erica to provide back-up for the California State Lottery Commission officials who would be involved in the bust.

Stiles did get the impression that one way Chris ensured PsyCrime’s generous budget was by lending out his people to a whole range of different state and local agencies who might benefit from his team’s special talents. And no question, since Danny and Mason came on board, the biggest boost to their budget had come from the Commission. It made sense: the lottery raised more than a _billion_ dollars a year for the state’s education budget, so there was a huge incentive to protect it from any hint of fraud. Danny and Mason were something of a dynamic duo in the lottery community—something in their combination of gifts let them detect all types of fraud, whether by psychics or ordinary humans. Luckily for the team, they’d rejected multiple offers from other states and the Commission itself to leave PsyCrime, but like everyone else there, they were almost improbably loyal to Chris.

Once the fraud busters had been sent off, Chris turned to the remaining team members. “Thanks for your patience. Yesterday worked well, so I’m keeping the three of you together for the rest of the week. I spoke with Captain Warwick at BHPD, and he was open to the idea of letting Parrish take Stiles to various murder scenes to see if we got any hits.” Stiles was opening his mouth to protest, but Chris cut him off. “I might have suggested that we were testing a new psy-active and wanted to see if it had any use in the field.”

“Uh, okay.” That wasn’t half bad as ideas went. “Will we be able to use anything we find?”

“Look, my deal with Eichen is that except for my team, you stay under the radar. No court appearances, no working directly with other departments; your name is never mentioned in any press release. Basically Erica needs to be with you at all times, for protection and to run interference. You let her talk to other law enforcement, living witnesses etc., and keep your focus on getting statements from ghosts. It should be clear that I trust Jordan completely.”

“What about this Captain Warwick? Won’t he figure out if Parrish starts naming all these perps?”

“Ted Warwick has been doing this a long time. I trust him, and more to the point, he knows when to keep his head down. He’s not stupid, but he’ll keep his mouth shut about any suspicions he might have. He gets that this is just one way to narrow down an investigation.”

“Exclude people we can forget about,” Lydia said.

“Exactly,” said Chris.

“Just, wouldn’t it be better if not me, but, you know, another medium, could just do it openly—you know, as part of the regular homicide department.”

“Stiles, I hate to break it to you, but not many mediums have your, you know, psychic cojones,” Erica said.

Chris seemed to have endless tolerance for Erica, which just made Stiles like him more. “Mediums have been integrated into departments in Chicago and the NYPD for more than a decade, but it’s been a mixed bag. In both Illinois and New York State, testimony from certified psychics is admissible in a murder trial and can’t be excluded as hearsay, but in general defense attorneys have a field day with it and there have been several cases where juries acquitted despite otherwise overwhelming evidence.” That was disappointing. “However, on the plus side, attempts to exclude evidence because a department medium was involved in the investigation have been uniformly rejected by the courts.”

“What about our current case—you know, the SuperTeen murders?”

“That isn’t going anywhere. BHPD is doing the routine follow-up, trying to trace the vic’s steps, check traffic cams, question witnesses. That’s what they’re good at, and frankly have the manpower for. They have actually been pretty cooperative about sharing info on this—probably because they haven’t found anything and they’re getting desperate. That’s why we were hoping for a hit with a ghost—we need a break, because the usual methods haven’t yielded anything.”

“Sorry,” Stiles said, though he knew it wasn’t his fault. Chris just smiled and shook his head—at least unlike Peter he wasn’t irritated by Stiles’ omega tendency to make unnecessary apologies.

It was a good plan, and Stiles liked Parrish, though he couldn’t help a longing look at the crime boards. But he got why Chris had come up with the idea. Stiles had no training: he’d not finished high school, let alone gone to the police academy, and he had all of one day on the job so far. It wasn’t like he could help with the investigation. He’d been hired by PsyCrime because in essence he was a piece of specialized equipment designed to obtain a single type of information: statements from murder vics.

It was a big deal, even if he couldn’t take much credit for it—it’s not like he’d studied or worked to learn how to talk to dead people, and he’d have dumped his ‘gift’ in a nanosecond if he could. But at least this way, he might do some good.

So he, Erica and Lydia picked up Jordan at his station, and then went to the first site on Warwick’s list. Stiles found the ghost no problem. He’d managed to obtain a little notebook and pen and took the guy’s statement: apparently he’d been shot in a drug turf war. Stiles copied down the name and details, which didn’t feel very impressive, and got to see Jordan do his Hell Hound number and send the ghost packing, which seemed really impressive, rising to the level of Totally Fucking Awesome.

Too bad Jordan didn’t have any idea of his own awesomeness, but like before he collapsed right afterwards and had no memory of his hellish alter ego. However, Lydia got the idea of stocking up on protein bars and Gatorade, so the deputy recovered quickly and they moved on to the next address on his list.

They got through five in total the first day, minus a half hour stop at Chipotle for burritos. One site was a dud, but four had ghosts, who all confirmed that the main (and most obvious) suspect was in fact guilty, which Jordan admitted was true of the vast majority of homicides. It was helpful, but after the third time, it already felt routine. Stiles couldn’t help suspecting that this Captain Warwick was testing him, since it wasn’t like Stiles knew any of the details of the cases ahead of time. Whatever—he didn’t blame the guy. Stiles wouldn’t have trusted himself either.

While they were visiting the final site of the day, Chris called to tell them the rest of the team had been held up on the super-exciting lottery case, so Erica offered to drive him and Lydia to their respective homes. Peter had left one of his foil-covered plates on the counter, along with detailed instructions on how to microwave it: “Push button for two minutes, (#2 on keypad) And for God’s sake remove the foil! NO METAL OF ANY KIND EVER IN THE MICROWAVE,” which Stiles chose to be offended by since he actually knew that.

So what if the pesto lasagna Peter had left instantly flew to the top of Stiles’ list of ‘favorite meals prepared by asshole werewolf.’

Over their two days spent driving around Beacon Hills, Stiles had uncovered that Erica was a heavy TV consumer and his partner had been generous with suggestions on how he could start to make a dent on the daunting number of great shows he’d missed during the three years he’d been institutionalized. He quickly settled into a marathon of _The Walking Dead._ (Stiles could definitely get behind dead people becoming lethal zombies rather than pushy ghosts). He was in the middle of his third episode when Chris texted “Home now. everything okay?” which Stiles translated as “do you need to suck my cock tonight, or can I go fuck my sinfully sexy werewolf husband?”

Somewhat to his surprise, he felt only a mild disappointment rather than looming panic when he texted back ‘M OK C U 2moro.” He finished the episode and went through the different steps of his emerging bedtime routine, and got in bed.

And the next thing his alarm clock was going off at 6 am, and he realized for the first time since he’d met Theo, he’d slept an entire night without once entering Astral.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting late due to dinner with my adorable niece. Next post should be Saturday. Apologies for the somewhat awkward break, but the full chapter ended up topping 11,000 words, which was pretty crazy. 
> 
> For fans of Teen Wolf minutia, Marco was actually Deucalion's beta, who appeared for a few seconds in the season 3A episode, "Visionary," when he tries to kill Deucalion right after the Alpha was blinded by Gerard Argent. Hope it's clear that our Marco, who ran a drop-in center for homeless wolves, is nothing like that guy except that he was also murdered by a member of the Alpha pack. 
> 
> FYI: Marco's last name was borrowed from the character Lisa Gutierrez in Jordan Castillo Price's PsyCop novels. Ennis got his last name from Jacob Marks, PsyCop extraordinaire and general hotty, from the same series. 
> 
> Finally, a million thanks to all the people who've left comments. I've never before gotten a reaction like this to a fic, and it's been amazing, a whole different experience writing and posting. I'll try to respond to individual comments in the next day or two, but I've actually been writing furiously, trying to get the final chapters down, so I hope people can forgive the delay answering. In the meantime, thank you so so much.

Wednesday was an almost exact replica of Tuesday, except that Peter had left homemade blueberry muffins for breakfast and they stopped for Korean Bar-be-cue for lunch (with a brief detour to Lydia’s favorite vegan noodle shop). Also, Erica had taken to calling Parrish ‘Hell Cop,’ to his endless dismay, and somehow found a T-Shirt that depicted a huge black dog wreathed in flames with the caption “All Dogs Go to Hell,” which she of course presented to him, causing a whole new crisis for the deputy. Apparently “All Dogs go to Heaven” was his all-time favorite movie, which was so lame it somehow veered over into adorable.

Still some murders were more interesting than others. After a string of drug dealer turf wars, a domestic, and a botched robbery, on their third day working their way down Captain Warwick’s list, life veered unexpectedly into Dashiell Hammett territory: the scene was the penthouse suite of the Beacon Arms Hotel. There they found a ghost dressed in a red velvet smoking jacket, who informed them that his brother had poisoned him and proceeded to detail a mindblowing plot involving a stolen painting, a beautiful but treacherous antiquities dealer from Cyprus, and a forged will. The story went on for more than an hour and Stiles ultimately had to get both Lydia and Erica in to help take down the details. He couldn’t say much in favor of the dead guy, who had forged the will and been having an affair with the beautiful antiquities dealer, but the brother hadn’t been a suspect, since he was supposedly in Tangiers at the time of the murder, so hopefully Stiles’ gift would help the cops put away one actual perp.

Stiles wasn’t bored per se, and no question, it was a million times better than his best day at Eichen House—or even his life before Eichen House. But except for the will forger, he found it difficult to work up much excitement for what he was doing. The truth was it was all pretty passive on his part. This wasn’t even like a test he could study for: the ghost said what it said; all he had to do was repeat the words, no interpretation necessary.

And he couldn’t say he derived any particular satisfaction from “bringing evil-doers to justice.” He knew that Jordan believed in what they were doing, but Stiles had a much harder time. Between Eichen, Valack and Theo, his faith in justice had probably been damaged beyond repair, and he still thought most dead people were assholes. If he could have been Parrish, moving deceased loiterers on to their final destination out of range of the living, that would have been something, but serving as a flesh-and-blood recording device for the dead would never be tolerable if there weren’t a paycheck involved.

Thursday night, Theo pulled him into Astral for less than five minutes, just to say he was busy. Stiles told himself he didn’t care and mostly believed it.

By Friday midday, they had gotten through Captain Warwick’s list of open cases. Parrish seemed to actually be getting jazzed about hitting the cold case files, which was too much for Stiles’ sanity. He couldn’t stop thinking about the crime boards back at HQ, which was probably his ADHD, but was threatening to metastasize into full-blown obsession. “You know, we only went to two of the sites for the SuperTeen case.”

“Is there really a point if they’re all repeaters?” Erica said.

Stiles gave Lydia a look that she knew meant _please back me_. She rolled her eyes, but said, “Thoroughness.”

“Seriously?” Erica protested. “Chris didn’t seem to think it was necessary?”

“I’m not sure he had the chance to think about it,” Lydia said, which was just her being diplomatic. Stiles was almost positive Chris had nixed them out of some protective Alpha instinct because of Stiles’ breakdown, which was nice but also pretty annoying.

“Weather’s nice today,” Stiles pointed out. “Would you really mind a walk in the Preserve after four days of driving around Beacon Hills?”

“Parrish, you agree with this?” Erica said.

“Uh, it’s probably a good idea, you know, to be thorough, like Lydia said.” Erica snorted: three days spent in a car together had made clear to everyone that Parrish would rather cut off a toe than contradict Lydia. At least Erica and Lydia seemed to be tolerating each other better, probably also due to Parrish, whose niceness was like a contagious disease, infecting everyone who spent enough time with him.

Stiles adopted his best sad puppy expression. “Would it be so bad?”

“Oh my god, don’t look at me like that. Fine!” Erica snapped.

The scene for the second murder, a werewolf named Lucas Bayne, was a lot closer to one of the preserve trailheads, so they hit that first. Stiles felt a rush of discouragement when he saw the repeater. He’d been so sure that he’d find something that helped with the case. Obviously, he’d been kidding himself—there were no clues here, no details he’d missed.

“Nothing?” Lydia asked.

He shook his head. “Sorry—maybe we should just go back,” which earned him a sharp pinch on the soft part of his underarm.

“Fuck! That hurt!”

“Hey human, lay off my partner or I’ll put you on the ground,” Erica shouted.

“Uh, I don’t…that’s… you shouldn’t—you could hurt her,” Parish fumbled, not sure how he might stop a werewolf, but clearly determined to.

Lydia of course just rolled her eyes at them. “You dragged us out here,” she snapped at Stiles. “Think about how you will sound trying to explain this to Chris— _oh yeah I was trying to be thorough, only I got embarrassed so I didn’t actually check the final site_.”

God she was a bitch, but of course she was right.

“She’s got a point,” even Erica conceded.

“Right, you’re right. Sorry,” he mumbled, sounding a lot like he had his first day on the job.

Parrish tapped something into his phone. “According to the GPS, the final site is only three miles from here.”

Only three miles!—had they forgotten that as of five days ago Stiles had been locked inside a mental hospital?

“You owe me a new pair of shoes,” Lydia said, marching in the direction Parrish pointed.

Stiles was aware that Erica could have made it in about six minutes, and Parrish in less than twenty, but he and Lydia required the better part of an hour to get there. But holy fuck, did it pay off.

“There’s a ghost,” Stiles said as soon as they got to the clearing.

“What?” Lydia snapped.

“There’s a ghost under that tree.”

“No way,” Erica said.

“But wait: you said the repeaters all had to be from the same shooter, but Marco Gutierrez was the _first_ victim--are you saying the first victim was a different shooter? That doesn’t make sense,” Parrish said, proving why he was the only actual cop there.

But none of that mattered. The ghost was there, and there was nothing for it but to go get the statement. At least Stiles had improved his opening shtick over the past few days. “Hi, are you Marco Gutierrez?” he asked like the Law Enforcement Professional that he was.

“You can see me?” the ghost asked, showing that he was about ten times more aware than the average.

“Uh, yeah, I’m actually a medium with PsyCrime, and we’re investigating your murder; do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” Even after a dozen times, he did not feel like less of a freak saying that.

“Yeah, of course, anything I can do to help.”

Stiles couldn’t help blinking at the guy for a minute, but at least he didn’t start up any semi-hysterical humming. “Yeah, okay, so according to my notes, the ME believes you were, uh, shot July 15th, sometime between the hours of 1am and 6am.”

“Yeah, that sounds right,” ghost Marco said.

“So can you tell me who did it?”

“His name is Ennis Marks; he’s a werewolf.”

“Ennis Marks, okay….”

“What did you just say?” Erica abruptly demanded.

“Whoa, dude, is that your partner?” Marco said, sounding admiring.

Stiles choked a bit, which he tried to turn into a cough. “Uh, yes, this is my, um, partner, Erica Reyes.” Stiles made a kind of flinging gesture towards the tree. “Yeah, Erica, Marco just ID’d the perp; he says his name is Ennis Marks.”

“No fucking way. Ennis Marks is a werewolf.”

“Right, that’s what he said.”

“Dude, your vic was shot!” When Stiles just looked confused, she repeated, “You’re telling me a werewolf shot someone. To death? No. No way. Ask him!”

“Whah….”

“Ask the vic—what the fuck?”

“It wasn’t a challenge,” Marco directed his answer to Erica, which was just surreal. “It was a hit—he didn’t want it leading back to him.”

Stiles repeated the words to her. “Why the fuck not?” she demanded.

“I run a half-way house for bitten wolves and some of my kids were getting ahold of Bane. I started poking around and next thing I know, I’m getting shot by Ennis Marks.”

Stiles dutifully relayed Marco’s theory, which seemed to excite Erica even more. “Oh my god, you think this could go back to Deucalion?”

“Duh,” Marco said. “Who the fuck else?” which really pushed on Stiles’ transcribing abilities.

“Marco thinks it could. Who, uh, who is Deucalion—and what is Bane?” Stiles asked.

“Bane is a drug. Deucalion is this anti-bitten fanatic,” Erica explained. “ _And_ he’s on the Werewolf Council. Holy shit, if he’s behind the SuperTeen murders to cover up that he’s pushing Bane! I need to call Peter about this!” she said, pulling out her phone. “Lydia, get Parrish the fuck out of here. He can’t take this one yet!”

Lydia to her credit didn’t hesitate. “Come on, Jordan, let’s pull back before the Hell Hound gets antsy.”

“SuperTeen murders?” Marco asked.

“Actually, you were the first,” Stiles said. As he said it, he flashed on the scene in Astral where he’d told Theo that Brett and Lori were part of this. Fuck, he’d totally forgotten. He was quickly distracted by Erica. “Peter!” she snapped into her phone.

“Is that Hale?” Dead Marco demanded. “Put it on speaker.”

“Marco wants you to put it on speaker.” Stiles couldn’t believe he’d just said that.

“I’m busy, Erica,” Peter said. “Now is not a good time.”

“Yeah, well whatever it is, I promise this is more important.”

“I highly doubt that, and please recall that working for Chris is no protection from a challenge from me.”

“Shove it up your ass, Peter. Listen, you know the case we’ve been working, supernatural homicides? Well we just went to one of the scenes, and Stiles was interviewing the vic’s ghost.”

“Fascinating,” Peter put so much disdain into that word, Stiles was surprised the phone didn’t start to drip with it. “Did he faint?”

“God, he’s such a jerk,” Marco said. “Don’t listen to him. You kick ass.” Stiles was almost positive that the first compliment he’d ever received from a dead person.

“Uh, thanks,” Stiles said. “Actually, you’re the most lucid ghost I’ve ever, uh, interviewed.”

“Don’t dis my partner, asshole,” Erica was shouting. “He has been sitting here talking with this dude for the last ten minutes. Peter, listen to me: the vic says that Ennis Marks killed him.”

“Those murders were all gunshots,” Peter said, suddenly all attention.

“No shit!” Erica said.

“I’ll call you back in five—call Chris.”

“Thank you!” she hit the button. “God, he is such a motherfucker.”

“Seriously,” Marco agreed.

“Marco agrees,” Stiles murmured, but Erica had walked off, apparently to talk to Chris.

“So how long have you been with PsyCrime?” Marco asked.

“Uh, five days?” Stiles answered, deeply uneasy at how much this resembled a normal conversation with a non-dead person. He reminded himself that he was a PsyCop and here to get information about a serial case. “So what’s the deal with Bane anyway?”

“It’s really bad news: bitten wolves take it because it helps even them out during the full moon, but at other times it causes a pretty serious high. It’s super addictive and it’s really easy to overdose on. I didn’t allow it in the drop-in center. I warned my kids, but you know how it is.”

Stiles did actually know. “Why just bitten wolves?”

“Well, they almost never have an Alpha to help them keep control during the full moon, and it’s not like they’re raised from birth to have an anchor like born wolves.”

“Shit, and the drug helps?”

Marco gave him a wry smile. “Yeah, it totally does, which sucks because it’s a bitch to get off.” It was obvious Marco was speaking from personal experience, which made Stiles respect him even more. “So your partner…”

“Erica, yeah,” Stiles said.

“She is wicked hot.”

“Uh….”

“They’re calling us in five,” Erica said and then noticing Stiles’ awkwardness, demanded, “What’d he say?”

When Stiles hesitated, Marco said, “Tell her, dude! I think you’re hot!”

“Um, Marco thinks you’re hot.”

Erica actually—he had to call it _preened_ at that, which was very out of character for her. From what he could tell, Erica knew exactly how gorgeous she was, but somehow wasn’t vain—which he recognized because Lydia also knew how hot she was, and she was definitely vain.

“Wow, thanks. I was there when they found your body—even dead, you totally got it, dude.”

Stiles shuddered at the thought, though in fairness he supposed Erica had a point. If Marco hadn’t been a fucking ghost, Stiles probably would have thought he was hot too. He couldn’t get over how unfazed Erica seemed talking to the dead.

“Dude, this is fucking huge. If we nail Deucalion for pushing Bane, and now for the SuperTeen murders—I can’t even.”

“Seriously, it’s about time,” Marco agreed. “What were these other murders?”

Stiles said, “Uh, Marco wants to know about the SuperTeen murders.”

“There have been five including you,” Erica said. “We thought it was a serial killer. All runaways—three werewolves, a chameleon, and a kanima.”

“No shit!”

“Marco said ‘no shit,’” Stiles muttered.

Erica turned on him. “Look, you can just say the words—you don’t have to keep saying “Marco says,” okay? And can we get a little less attitude here? You’re his fucking voice--do your job.”

Stiles gaped at her: _Erica_ was accusing him of having _attitude_! Marco laughed. “She’s kind of got a point—you don’t have to make it awkward.”

“So maybe you know one of our other vics.” Erica gave him the names, but Marco had never heard of them.

They continued to chat, mostly gossip about the Beacon Hills bitten wolf community and competing stories about their worst encounters with asshole born werewolves, with Stiles serving as some sort of interdimensional cell phone.

He vaguely recalled that he’d seen a movie or TV show where a ghost occupied a medium in order to kiss his living wife and he wondered if he would be willing to let Marco take over his body just so he wouldn’t have to translate any more. But as soon as he thought of it, he instantly resolved that under no circumstance was he letting any ghost inside him, especially one he barely knew.

And then he wondered if talking to a therapist would violate his NDA.

Erica’s cell finally rang, at which point his life moved from surreal to full on what-the-fuckery, as he found himself part of a conference call with Peter, Chris, Erica and dead Marco.

This at least was easier: they could all hear each other, so he really only had to contribute when Marco wanted to add something.

He kind of got why Chris talked so vaguely about “werewolf politics.” Both Erica and Marco clearly hated Peter, who despised both of them in turn, and yet the three of them all shared the conviction that nothing on earth could possibly be as monumentally important as the fact that Ennis Marks had used a gun to kill Marco instead of ripping out his throat.

Stiles gathered from Erica’s comments that she had jumped right to the conclusion that all of the SuperTeen murders were committed by these “pure blood fanatics,” who sounded like something out of Harry Potter–basically a small group of born wolves, led by a Voldemort figure named Deucalion, had it in for their mugglesque bitten counterparts.

It made sense, obviously, but Stiles didn’t buy it. For one thing, two of the vics weren’t even werewolves: one was a chameleon and one was a kanima. Why would an anti-bitten zealot give a shit about other supernaturals? But even more than that, it just felt wrong. Take out the swirling maelstrom that was ‘werewolf politics’ and Marco’s murder was basically like every other one on Captain Warwick’s list. It made sense in the most rudimentary of ways: someone wanted someone else dead and killed them, leaving a ghost with a grudge and a story they wanted to tell.

He didn’t know what it was about the repeaters—but they were _not_ normal. One thing he was positive of: there was no way that Ennis Marks, whoever he was, killed them.

At the end of the call, Peter said, “This stays within PsyCrime. I mean it, Erica. If this gets out, it could cause an all-out war between born and bitten, and you know how that will go.”

“Yeah, fine, I promise,” Erica said.

“I swear I won’t tell anyone,” Marco added, which made Stiles want to curl up in a ball and just cry. But now was not the time. From everything he could tell, Marco was a good guy and Stiles was actually sorry he was dead, which was saying a lot, but this case was solved. The SuperTeen murders were not. He needed to get back to those crime boards or he was going have an episode.

Meanwhile, Erica was saying, “Okay, so Marco, do you mind, like, hanging out a bit longer?” Stiles assumed she meant by his tree. “There’s this hell hound dude that’s been sending ghosts on to the happy hunting ground or wherever, but I’d like him to wait. There might be some more questions—or you know, we could just talk.” She made it sound like a date. Stiles opted not to remind her that he would be necessary third wheel on such an occasion.

“Yeah, sure no problem—I look forward to it,” Marco answered, with no irony that Stiles could discern.

That was the final straw to get the fuck out of there. As they trudged back to the car, Erica chatted blithely about what a cool dude Marco was. He couldn’t help but envy her ease dealing with the dead. Even after three years, Stiles still found it equal parts creepy and cringe-worthy.

They found Lydia leaning against the car, playing with her phone, no sign of Parrish. “I called Jordan an Uber,” she said, as they all got in the car.

“What if he, like, jumps out and goes back to get Marco?” Erica demanded, probably thinking of her date.

“I told the driver to take him to the airport, and gave him an extra $50 in cash to call if Parrish tried to get out before they got there.” It was a good idea: the airport was clear across town. “He just texted me that he’s there. No sign of the hell hound. I think that’s the best we can do.”

“Okay, that’s good,” Erica said, as they pulled onto the main road. “Marco’s cool. I don’t want him to go, you know, before his time and shit.”

“Sweetie, I really think that ship’s sailed.”

“Your point?” Erica snapped, turning to look at the back seat.

“The guy’s dead.”

“Hey Erica,” Stiles put in, before she and Lydia could fully engage, “could you drive me back to HQ?”

“Dude, it’s like four o’clock. I know it’s your first week, but TGIF. Don’t you want to go home?”

“Uh, I just need to check something. Do you mind?”

Erica just shrugged. “It’s all the same to me. Lydia?”

Lydia could read Stiles like no one else. She could tell that something was up with him. “HQ’s fine. I’ll text Jackson to come get me. What happened after we left?”

Erica updated Lydia on the new developments, strongly implying that entire case had been solved—this was a move by purist born werewolves against the bitten. Stiles didn’t need to look behind him to feel Lydia’s skepticism.

Erica dropped them in the parking lot with a cheerful “Great work today! You totally nailed it. See yah Monday, partner,” and then pulled out.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is my first attempt at the 'procedural' genre--I'd be grateful if you attribute any "detective-ing" failures to me not the characters.

The office was empty except for Chris, who was on the phone. He looked surprised but flashed his hand three times to indicate 15 minutes. Lydia said something about changing out of her dress which had gotten muddied during the trek through the preserve.

Which meant that the room was empty when Stiles finally, _finally_ got to look at the stupid crime boards.

Marco’s picture was first of course—depressingly pale and just _empty_ like all corpses, nothing like the chipper, surprisingly cool dude he’d spent the afternoon with. Then came Lucas, Josh, Corey, and most recently Tracy.

Stiles fought it for about a minute, but then broke down and opened his notebook and drew two stick figures for Brett and Lori, and pinned them up at the front of the time line. The drawings looked silly, almost mocking, though he didn’t mean it that way. But he couldn’t get away from the overwhelming sense that the board was useless without their pictures so he ignored his guilt.

But as soon as they were up, he was immediately faced with the problem that he didn’t have a date for their murder. He knew it wasn’t his fault, but he couldn’t help feeling humiliated by it. In the scheme of things, losing track of time while you are institutionalized was a minor thing, but it burned more than a lot of more major ones: like he’d been acting like he’d never get out, like he was the kind of person for whom dates and time don’t matter—and never would.

It felt useless, but he forced himself to think back, try to remember any markers. Okay, so it wasn’t _cold_ outside—so spring? It was right around when Theo arrived, maybe a month before Lydia left. There were times it felt like he’d been with Theo for years, but had it really only been six months? The bite was easier—that was roughly six weeks ago.

“It was June.” He turned to see Lydia.

“Sorry?”

“I got released on July 15, and it was a month after Theo got there. That would put the date for Brett and Lori in the middle of June.” She slapped the paper with Stiles’ stick drawings.

He blushed. “Yeah, sorry—I can’t draw for shit—I guess I should take them down.” He hadn’t meant the pictures to be cruel—he just needed to see what the board looked like if they were included in the list of victims.

“It’s okay,” she murmured. “Here let me.” She took his pictures down and went to her desk and pulled out a proper sketch pad. Lydia could draw pretty well, as he knew from various art therapy classes, but apparently she didn’t need it. She closed her eyes and got that intent expression she did when she worked her banshee mojo, and then the pencil started to move almost like the needle on a polygraph—more like a machine than a person. But then that was the name, wasn’t it? Automatic writing—or drawing.

It was wicked fast: in less than five minutes she had produced two phenomenally accurate sketches, that thankfully bore no resemblance to Stiles’ memory of the repeaters. They looked like they’d been copied from photographs rather than Lydia’s memories—like they were _posed_. He wondered what that indicated about her power. Brett was smirking in his picture, and Lori had a shy smile. Stiles had of course noticed Brett when he arrived, due to his egregious height and hotness, though he’d not had time to make a move. He’d probably dismissed Lori as too young.

 _Wrong_! he immediately recognized that as bullshit. He’d shut out all thought of her because she looked a little too much like Heather, which now made him feel a shit heel. That was what Eichen did: it erased people, acted like they didn’t matter, like they could be hurt and debased and murdered and no one would care.

Stiles reminded himself that he’d had no power there, that he did not create those conditions, but for better or worse Eichen’s cruelty had infected him and if he wanted to leave that hell hole behind, he needed to purge it, which meant _giving a shit_. It seemed the least he could do for Lori.

He pinned Lydia’s pictures up and wrote “Middle of June” under them.

“You don’t think Marco was part of this, do you?”

“No, I’m positive he wasn’t,” he shocked himself by saying.

“Should we take his picture down?” she asked.

Stiles looked at the board. Marco fit there—he couldn’t fit, he _didn’t_ \--but yet he did. He shook his head. “Leave him for now. You thought he was the first victim, right? Tell me how you found him.”

“It was actually the day after I started working here. Jordan showed up, and told Chris he’d been sleepwalking. I guess Chris had a hunch—he, Jordan, Jackson and I went out to the clearing. I knew the second we arrived that there was a body. Chris called it in, said that one of his werewolves had caught the scent, and they brought in CSU. The ME said that Marco had been dead about two days.”

“Okay, so Marco is killed, and then you have three more, all roughly a month apart—all shot and buried in Beacon Hills Preserve.”

“There was no reason to think Marco wasn’t one of them,” Lydia said.

“I think there was every reason to think he was--I think that was the whole point. Why else copy Marco?”

“Copy?”

“You find a murdered werewolf in July, and then in August, September, October, and now November. The dates are all over the month, but the pattern is still one per month. It’s only natural you’re going to think they’re connected.”

“Okay, so what’s the point? Why do that?”

Stiles sighed. “I mean there are copy cats—they’re a thing.” But even as he said it, it didn’t feel right. Copy cats were wannabes—like they were too lame and insecure to come up with their own idea, so they copied someone stronger and, for lack of a better word, cooler than they were. Stiles knew in his bones that did not describe whoever pointed that gun at a begging Lori Talbot and pulled the trigger. And anyway the dates were fucked: Lori and Brett died a month before Marco. They were killed in Eichen House, and really they only had Stiles’ vibe to say they were part of this. Maybe he should just put them on a separate board or….

No. _No!_ They _were_ part of this. “Tell me about serial killers,” Stiles said to Lydia.

“Seriously?” she looked at him and he waved her on. She gave one of her long-suffering sighs at the necessity of dealing with less informed, less intelligent people than she was, but at least she didn’t give him her “not a chance” smile. “Fine. Obviously, we are talking about hundreds of different criminals, but at the most basic level, they are defined as someone who commits three or more murders, with time intervals between.”

“The cooling off period, right?”

“Exactly. Most experts believe the murders are an attempt to satisfy a deep-seated psychological need—to the point that that is their only real motive.”

“Right no motive—that’s why the victims are almost always strangers, right?—because they don’t matter beyond the perp’s need to kill?”

“Well, there are qualities about the victims that matter,” Lydia said. “Like all of our vics are supernaturals and teenagers; obviously the perpetrator has a strong animus against supernaturals.”

“Okay,” he said, pacing. “But that means I’m right. Lori and Brett are definitely a part of this. They were werewolves and teenagers. The location and circumstances of the murder might be different, but they fit the most important, the most meaningful part of the pattern.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“The dates are fucked up—because of Marco. I mean what you thought was your first vic wasn’t first, and wasn’t actually a vic. It’s just there is no way that’s random.” He looked at the boards again. “Fuck! It was two!”

“What Stiles?” Lydia demanded.

“Stiles?” Oh shit, Chris had come in. He faltered, suddenly worried that he sounded like a lunatic. _“Omega, tell us what you noticed,”_ Chris growled.

Stiles shuddered but answered. “Well, it’s that Lori and Brett were _two_ murders—that’s one way they don’t fit, but if you take out Marco, the killer waited two months to kill again, and then hit one vic each month afterwards.”

“So in a way, they kept to one murder a month?” Lydia mused. “Like an average? And how does Marco fit in?”

“My guess is it was just luck. He fit the profile—supernatural teenager or close to teenager, so the killer copied the details for that crime—basically muddied the waters.”

“And virtually guaranteed that after Lucas’ murder, we’d immediately jump to the conclusion that we had a serial killer,” Chris said.

“Holy shit,” Stiles said.

“Which means,” Lydia mused, “that it’s not a serial killer—but how does that work? It _is_ a serial killer. There have been six victims, at specific time intervals…”

“The motive,” Stiles said.

“These aren’t just random teenagers,” Chris said. “They were deliberately targeted.”

“That’s another reason to put Marco in the pile,” Lydia said. “Make it harder to see what they might have had in common.”

“You never found anything that connected them?” Stiles asked.

“Bitten wolves, especially runaways, are almost never in the system and they are notorious for not cooperating with law enforcement. Any records we’ve been able to get have come from before the vics were bitten.”

“Tracy was different,” Stiles said. “I mean she wasn’t killed in the preserve, and her body was just left out, not buried.”

“Kanimas are much harder to kill than werewolves,” Chris said. “Maybe there was an external circumstance, or that was his only opportunity—though that is further evidence that Tracy Stewart was his specific target, that he wasn’t just going after supernatural teenagers.”

“Maybe he didn’t care about the pattern any more,” Lydia mused.

“What, like he’s done?” Stiles asked.

“I said he didn’t _care—_ whatever motive he had for confusing our trail no longer applied.”

“Why don’t I like the sound of that?” Stiles said.

There was a beep on Lydia’s phone. “Jackson’s here. I’ll see you Monday.”

“How sure are you of this?” Chris asked once she left the room. Stiles was suddenly swamped with a million doubts. “Stiles, don’t think. Just answer: _How sure are you, omega?”_

“I’m sure.” He was—he couldn’t explain it, but he knew he was right.

“Okay.”

Weirdly, that sent his doubts soaring again. “That’s it—okay? You just believe me.”

“I have instincts too, Stiles.” Chris met his eye. Fucking A, this was going to kill him.

“I really hope that look means you’re going to fuck me right now,” Stiles said.

“I told you that requires a conversation. And I’m scenting lust from you right now, not anxiety.”

“So what, you’ll take care of the messed up little omega, but you won’t fuck me just for the hell of it?”

“That’s right,” Chris said firmly though not angrily. “Anything more would mean a different kind of relationship, and I’m not sure that’s what you want right now.”

“Relationship?”

Chris put a hand on his throat and gave a gentle squeeze. “I don’t usually have casual sex, and definitely not with omegas. If we fuck, my instincts will come into play. Do you really want another Alpha making a claim on you?”

Stiles flinched away: he sure as shit didn’t. Well, he _wanted_ it—he liked Chris, probably too much, respected him, and he wanted him like burning. But he’d been out of Eichen for five fucking days, and Chris was right: He did not need to deal with the possessiveness, the marking, and all the other Alpha bullshit, not when he actually seemed to be making a decent stab at creating a viable life for himself.

Though Chris’ words brought up another worry: had he been neglecting Chris’ needs? Too caught up in his own panic to realize his boss was uncomfortable playing the role of Alpha for him when his omega urges got out of control? They’d actually only done things those two times, right after he got out of Eichen and after his panic attack the first day of work. It was understood that Alphas and omegas working together might have to take steps and even be intimate in order to manage dynamic issues. But that was definitely not the same as dating. “Has it been okay—you know? What we’ve done?” he asked hoarsely.

“Of course it has,” Chris answered. “I don’t want you worrying about that: if I have a problem with something, I will tell you.”

Of course the authoritative tone shot right to Stiles’ omega soul—and his dick. Chris made his enigmatic smile, equaling more blood to his dick. “I was just coming in to say I was ready to go home—what about you?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

Once they were in the car, Chris said, “I wanted to tell you before: you did excellent work today with that ghost.”

‘Uh, thank you. I mean I just listen and repeat what they said.”

“I think today was a bit more complicated,” Chris said. “I also don’t recall asking you to go back to those other scenes; it’s pretty clear that your initiative just got us our first real break in this case. And what you did just now with the crime boards was nothing short of extraordinary.”

“I’m sure anyone on the team would have spotted that.”

“That’s not true actually. Boyd made those and as far as I can tell, he’s the only one other than you who has looked at them. Look, a major goal of mine with PsyCrime has been to assemble a team with different, sometimes contrasting abilities. Every single member plays a vital role and has talents that make them good investigators, but they are not the same talents. For example, werewolves can pick up scent evidence that would be impossible to obtain in any other way, and they can almost always hear when someone is lying. But their heightened senses give them so much information, they don’t always consider less obvious sources, those not accessible to their senses. And even bitten wolves have such strong instincts, they can have trouble recalling or making sense of the less obvious human motives.”

Stiles couldn’t help a glance at Chris. “Sometimes it sounds like you forget that I was locked up in Eichen.”

“Maybe, but that’s because you seem to be shaking it off faster than I could have anticipated, especially after your experience on Monday. And Stiles, though I would _never_ claim it can justify what you went through there, your experience at Eichen did teach you things that will make you a better investigator. At the very least, that was obvious today.”

Stiles just nodded, not sure exactly how he felt about what Chris was saying.

“I think you should join us for dinner tonight,” Chris said as they pulled up to their block.

Stiles snapped his head around. “What? Why?”

“You and Peter have been avoiding each other.”

“What? No we…” Chris gave him a look. “Well, I mean maybe I’ve been trying to spare him my omega grossness, which he clearly doesn’t like, but that is just me being nice—polite, a good tenant.”

Chris laughed. “Good try, but I’d still like you to come to dinner.”

“Are you ordering me?” He forced himself to leave out the sir, though he doubted he fooled Chris.

“No, of course not. If you _truly_ don’t want to, then you shouldn’t. But I’d like the two of you to make another try to get along. You’re not the same omega who burst into tears driving to the office this past Monday.”

“How does Peter feel about you trying to force us to be friends?”

“He’s used to it.”

Stiles supposed he could feel flattered that the Alpha thought he was confident enough to say no, but after five days working with Chris, Stiles was getting a feel for how his new boss managed his team. There was a ruthlessness to it: not in an immoral way, just Chris did what he had to to get the results he wanted. _Exhibit A_ being Chris’ willingness to use his skill with interrogation on his own employees to extract information he considered important.

It was a little unnerving because in general Chris was incredibly relaxed and tolerant with his team which could trick you into thinking PsyCrime was some sort of egalitarian commune, when in fact it was an unabashed autocracy. Chris just didn’t need to throw around his weight or make threats to get total obedience and loyalty from his minions.

He’d been right about earning Stiles’ trust. It wasn’t even that Stiles felt personally like he knew Chris well enough to trust him. But five days with PsyCrime had given him a very good sense of his teammates. Erica hadn’t exaggerated: they were all rescues and rejects, bitten wolves, Eichen house inmates, lost causes. Stiles had spent his life with kids like that, and they did not trust easily, and yet every last one of them practically worshipped Chris. Erica and Lydia could not be more different in background or personality, but they both trusted Chris. Jackson tolerated two people on the planet, Lydia-- _and Chris_. Isaac was a total pill who barely had a civil word for anyone, but he would have laid down his life for Chris.

And Stiles could not doubt for a second that Chris would protect every single one of them—with his life if necessary—stand up to anyone, pull any string, break any law.

Stiles thought his trust button had been broken by Eichen and obliterated when Theo bit him, but he couldn’t lie to himself: he trusted Chris.

“Why do you want this?” he asked.

“Once you and Peter get past this antagonism, I think you’ll find you have a lot in common,” he said as he backed the car into a spot half a block up from the house.

“Is that your way of calling me an asshole?”

“I think you just answered your own question.”

“Fuck you,” he said before he could stop himself. “And if I suck his cock?—are you suddenly going to get possessive?”

“Of you or of Peter?” Chris winked at him.

“Fine, whatever. He’s your mate—you’re the one who’ll have to live with him.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally Peter reenters our tale so he can finish off his quest for total story domination. 
> 
> FPMP is borrowed from PsyCop--my favorite character in the series, Crash, refers to it as "F-Pimp" because he's amazing like that.

As soon as they went in the front door, Peter called from the kitchen, “Dinner’s almost ready. You’re a little early…. Oh, you…,” he said when he saw Stiles. It was the tone of someone whose cat just brought them a disemboweled rodent.

“Alpha.”

“Omega.”

“I invited Stiles to join us,” Chris said.

“So I see. Well, you’d better reset the table.”

Chris went up and put both his hands on Peter’s hips. “Hey,” he said kissing him. “How was your day?”

“You mean other than dealing with that intolerable brat of a wolf of yours, and finding out that Deucalion might have started a genocidal campaign against the bitten?”

“Those really don’t sound equally serious to me,” Stiles muttered.

Peter shot him a narrow gaze, but then turned back to Chris. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine, sweetheart.” Chris kissed him. “You on the other hand look gorgeous. You’re dressed up?” Peter was wearing a silky red shirt and black jeans, his hair annoyingly perfect.

“This has been a hellish week. If I don’t do something tonight I’m worried I’m going to destroy a piece of furniture I like—why don’t you come out with me?”

Chris kissed him again. “Sorry, love. But right now, hitting a dance club sounds about as relaxing as ripping up a sidewalk with a jackhammer. I am going to curl up in our bed with my new book and a nice big glass of Scotch.”

“Humph,” Peter said, but nestled his head against Chris’ chest. Stiles couldn’t help feeling like he was intruding on a private moment and wandered towards the back of the kitchen where Peter had the TV on.

It looked like some news show with a bunch of old guys in suits sitting around a table. He was turning away when he heard a deep baritone voice that he’d know anywhere.

“Holy shit.”

Both Chris and Peter turned. “Oh God, not again,” Peter snapped. “I swear this is his fourth appearance today. You’d think he was up for reelection this year.”

“I know one of them,” Stiles said. “I mean I don’t _know_ him, but I’ve met him.”

“Which one?” Chris asked sharply.

“The balding one with the white hair and the creepy voice.”

“That one?” Peter snapped, putting his finger on the guy. “How do you know him?”

“Uh, he questioned me for about six hours after Theo bit me.”

“Well there’s your answer,” Peter turned on Chris. “That’s just fucking great! You really had no idea?” The Alpha sounded furious.

“You know I didn’t,” Chris protested. “But I already told you I was worried that the FPMP had their prints all over this.”

“What are you guys talking about? What’s the FPMP?”

“The Federal Psychic Monitoring Program. Stiles, what did he want to know specifically?” Chris asked, not quite in the Alpha tone but firmly enough that Stiles answered immediately.

“He wanted to know why Theo bit me—that’s what everyone wanted to know, like it was this profound mystery—it was totally flattering, let me tell you.”

“Oh give me a break,” Peter snapped. “You’re human. If you get hurt, the mate bond will drain him until he’s dead, and it’s not like you can help him heal in return—of course it’s a question.”

“Yeah, well from where I sit, I’m the one who got screwed by this. He might be able to heal me, but if he dies, I still die, and a fuckton more people want Theo dead than me, especially given that the night he bit me he’d just murdered five people. Why do you care who asked me anyway?”

“The man who questioned you is my father,” Chris said.

“Senator Gerard Argent,” Peter sneered, “who just so happens to head the Special Committee on Psychic and Supernatural Affairs. And so now we know why you got placed here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you wonder why they let you out of Eichen?” Peter demanded.

“Well gee, maybe I thought it was because PsyCrime needed a medium,” Stiles shot back. “Or maybe since my quote/unquote _mate_ took out the director and the head doctor, and a bunch of orderlies, they were finally going to shut the place down.”

Peter just rolled his eyes like he’d never heard anything so naïve.

“It seemed a bit easier than I expected,” Chris explained. “And the FPMP would only agree so long as you lived here.”

“I thought that was because I’m an omega, and my mate is, you know….”

“In the hoosegow,” Peter offered. Fucker.

“That’s possible,” Chris said carefully.

“But you don’t believe it?”

“Oh good lord,” Peter snapped. “Chris is being nice: no one doubts that they wanted leverage over your mate. The only question he has is whether letting you out was meant to be a bribe or a threat.”

Stiles looked at Chris. “He’s telling the truth?”

Chris shrugged. “I tried to get you out at the same time I got Lydia released, but I was basically told it was never going to happen. It was clear that at least one person suspected you were higher than a level five, but you were consistently uncooperative so they had no idea exactly what you knew—to the powers at Eichen that made you an unacceptable threat.”

Stiles felt chilled by the words. “I’m surprised they didn’t just off me—it wasn’t like they had some problem with killing us.”

“Stiles, you must have figured out by now that there are no other mediums of your power currently in the U.S. You’re a threat, but you are also a potential asset, one they hoped to hold in reserve in case they needed you.”

“What, to get testimony if some spy shows up dead or something?”

“Yes, exactly,” Chris said.

“And then Theo bites me….”

“I’m pretty sure that put you on the radar of certain key people quite a bit higher in the pecking order than before,” Chris said.

“Because I might influence him?”

“This really never occurred to you? Because I find that surprising,” Peter said.

“Yeah, well maybe it didn’t occur to me because I don’t have any influence over Theo—I never have. If I had influence, he wouldn’t have fucking bitten me.”

“And you really have no idea why he’d do that?” Peter sneered. “Did you even ask?”

“Yes I fucking asked. You know what he said? That he had to do it the same night he took care of Valack and Jennifer Blake or he wouldn’t get another chance—like biting me was some foregone conclusion, and he just was deciding _when_.”

“Do you think that’s why he did it?” Chris asked. “Because he sees you as his mate? Was he trying to force you to be exclusive?”

“You guys are Alphas—you tell me. You’re the ones who get all fixated on claims like omegas are possessions or something.” Stiles hoped that throwing it back at them would keep them from pushing him to where he’d have to try to lie to them, which had a depressingly low probability of success. As far as Stiles could tell, Theo had one overriding reason for biting him: he hadn’t wanted to lose the only person who could genuinely share Astral with him.

“Oh, so this is an Alpha thing is it?” Peter snapped. “Is that what you tell yourself? Because Chris and I and every other Alpha we know somehow manage to interact with omegas without forcing bites on them.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Chris said, kissing his mate’s head. “Stiles is not to blame, so don’t make it sound like he is.”

It was sweet of Chris to try to defend him, but it was obvious his whole plan to create some kind of détente between him and Peter was not happening. “Look, maybe I should just leave….”

“Now that you’re finally capable of an actual conversation?” Peter said. “Not a chance.”

“Oh my god, _fuck you_ , Peter.”

“Don’t say it,” Peter snapped at Chris.

“Say what?” Stiles demanded.

Chris kissed Peter on the mouth and then said, “I told you so.”

When Stiles just looked puzzled, Peter admitted, “Chris bet me fifty dollars that you’d say ‘fuck you’ to me before the week was out.”

“What the fuck! So you invited me tonight to win your bet?”

Chris smiled. “Shall we eat?”

Stiles couldn’t help sulking as they took their seats at the kitchen table. He still thought Peter was an asshole and he’d not anticipated having his ruminations in the car on Chris’ tendency towards ruthlessness and manipulation confirmed quite so quickly.

At least the food was amazing—of course. It was a roasted chicken with creamy orange rice that Peter called pumpkin risotto.

“So can I ask something?” he said, after he’d had enough bites to take the edge off his hunger.

“Of course,” Chris said over Peter’s snort.

“What’s the deal with your dad—I mean, you guys sounded pretty freaked out; does he not tell you stuff?”

“We’re not really in contact,” Chris said in that cautious way of his.

“Oh for goodness sake,” Peter snapped. “It’s the age-old story: scion of one of the oldest and wealthiest hunter families in America makes a hopeless mésalliance with the reprobate son of one of the country’s oldest and wealthiest werewolf packs, gets disinherited by his parents, renounced by his father, and then goes on to found PsyCrime, which basically spits in the eye of everything his family stands for.”

“Wow,” Stiles said. “That’s, uh, pretty heavy shit—sounds like a book or something.”

“I’d prefer that not become a matter of gossip with the team,” Chris said.

“Sure, no problem. Were you disinherited too?” Stiles asked Peter.

“Of course not. My family adores me.” It was Chris’ turn to snort. “Don’t say it,” Peter warned. To Stiles he said, “There may have been the occasional squabble—but not about Chris.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Chris murmured into his wineglass. “They’re good people. I’ve been lucky they always welcomed me.”

“Of course, they love Chris,” Peter said mockingly. “Founder of PsyCrime.”

“Uh, do you, you know, work?” Stiles asked Peter.

“You think I stay home and prepare you delicious meals all day?”

“Do _you_ think there’s something wrong with doing that?” Stiles countered. That was what the vast majority of omegas did.

“Hmm, I see Chris has managed to find yet another nightmare brat for his team. How remarkable. Yes, I have a job. I’m on the Werewolf Council.”

Stiles nearly spat out his drink. “Whoa, that’s, like, huge isn’t it?”

“See Chris—it is a big deal.”

“Peter, I never said it wasn’t a big deal—I just pointed out that you hate it.”

“Well there is that, but my sister asked me as such a huge favor, and well, they were all so convinced that I would never do anything that constituted work, and if I even tried, I wouldn’t be able to hack it and would quit within a week, so of course I had to prove them wrong—wait, actually that was that T.V. show I watched last night.” To Stiles he explained, “The Hale Pack always has someone on the Council—it’s tradition—even though everyone hates it, and according to my sister, Talia, it was my turn, hence my current delightful life attending endless committee meetings in which nothing is ever decided except to table the discussion until next time.”

Stiles couldn’t help holding up two fingers and rubbing them together.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Peter asked.

“I think it’s the world’s tiniest violin,” Chris laughed.

“Like I said, nightmare brats—every last one of you.”


	13. Chapter 13

When dinner was over, Stiles was ordered not to move by Peter while Chris cleared the plates and put them in the dishwasher and Peter wrapped up the food. “Coffee?” Peter asked as he got out a fancy-looking bronze box and started putting out odd, multicolored cookies that looked a little like small, day-glo whoopee pies. “They’re macarons, from François Payard,” Peter said when Stiles looked puzzled. “It’s a bakery. Just try one.”

“Uh, thanks.” He picked up a bright pink one that tasted weird and crumbly and vaguely of raspberry—also so good he realized he was going to have to start hitting the thesaurus for more words that meant _delicious_. “That’s amazing. Uh, could I try another?”

“Go ahead—they’re too sweet for me.”

“Oh God, macarons—I love you,” Chris said, putting an entire one in his mouth. He closed his eyes and groaned. It was the most excited Chris had gotten over food, though of course he must be used to all the gourmet cuisine by now.

Peter gave Stiles a smug smile, which made him almost not hate the werewolf.

Chris took a sip from his water glass. “Are you going out now?”

“I was going to.”

“Where…uh where are you going?” Stiles couldn’t help asking. Both Chris and Peter turned to him.

“Stiles, do you want to go?” Chris asked.

“Excuse me!” Peter snapped

“Uh, no, not, no….” Peter rolled his eyes at the obvious lie.

He was almost sure Chris had said something about dancing. One of his happiest memories of Eichen was the time he had managed to snag a clock radio and he and Heather had jumped around the rec room dancing like maniacs to some crappy FM oldies station. Eventually they’d managed to drag Lydia in to dance with them, though she hadn’t stopped rolling her eyes. And then Movie Mike with the bad acne had joined them, and actually had some moves, and Su-jin, Stephan and LaToya had gotten out of group and come and danced, though Crazy Vic had stood in the corner with his arms folded, looking like he’d sucked a lemon. Harris had broken it up finally, of course, but for a time….

Su-jin was probably still alive. She had parents who gave a shit and had somehow gotten her out, but LaToya and Mike….

“Stiles.” Chris was kneeling close to his face. “Do you want to go?”

He shrugged, not able to say it, but not able to say no either. He totally understood why Peter wanted to go out. The idea of curling up in his apartment alone, waiting for Theo, sounded like hell. But dancing….

“Come on, Peter,” Chris said.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Peter said. “I was planning to go to Fang.”

“And? Stiles is mated.”

“To Theo Raeken—that will go over very well, I can tell you.”

“Well then, why not go to the Jungle? That’s mixed.”

“I can’t go there dressed like this! Oh fine! Do you need to change?” Peter demanded with a disapproving look at Stiles’ jeans and hoodie. Stiles just shrugged. “Of course you don’t,” he said and went upstairs.

He came back down wearing a blue V-neck and grey slacks that didn’t seem that different from the red shirt and black pants. Chris kissed Peter goodbye and headed upstairs with his book and glass of scotch. Peter grabbed his leather jacket and car keys and headed towards the door. “What?” he asked.

“You couldn’t just wear the other shirt?”

“No.” He locked the door and flicked the fob to unlock his beemer.

“Why not?”

“Fang is a werewolf club. The red shirt means I’m an Alpha and that I am on the hunt.”

“For sex?”

“Yes, for sex or a fight, whichever.”

“But not at the Jungle?”

“I still want those, but broadcasting that you’re an Alpha the second you walk in there will just pull in werewolf groupies or idiots who think they like it rough.” It seemed like Peter was really overthinking this, but then again he was a self-involved asshole. “What about you?” Peter asked.

“What about me?”

“Are you on the market for a hook-up?”

“Uh, Chris didn’t want me to… you know… not until I was more used to being out.”

“Oh, well, if Chris said so, of course you’ll obey.”

“Fuck you.”

“Very witty. Now answer the question, please. Are you looking for a hook-up or not? It will affect how we do this.”

Affect? “Uh, no, not really. I like dancing. I didn’t want to sit home by myself.”

“Fair enough. Lean over.”

“What?”

“Do you want every Alpha in there hitting on you? Then lean over so I can put this collar on you. Or are you worried your mate will get mad?”

“God, are you always such an asshole?”

“The answer to that should be obvious. Now what will it be? The collar or every Alpha in there trying to pick you up?”

“Fine.” Peter pulled a leather collar with a silver spiral thing hanging from it out of his coat pocket and nodded for Stiles to lean over.

“Can’t you just hand it to me?” Stiles grumped.

“That’s not how collars work, pet.”

“What’s the silver thing?”

“It’s a triskele, the symbol of the Hale pack,” Peter said as he tugged Stiles’ sweatshirt and T-shirt down, of course exposing Theo’s bite mark. The Alpha wrinkled his nose, looking disgusted.

“It’s not like you can get cooties from it!” Stiles snapped as Peter buckled the collar on.

“Very pretty,” Peter smirked, and turned the car on and pulled out.

“Why the fuck do you hate him so much?”

“Beyond that he murdered five people and forced his bite on an unwilling omega? I’d think that should be plenty.”

“For Chris maybe, but I don’t see why you give a shit. Are you afraid he’s going to come after you?”

“Oh, yes, I’m absolutely terrified of a seventeen-year-old bitten wolf whose only real weapon can’t work against me.”

“He’s eighteen.”

“Which is so much more terrifying.”

“Fine, but if you’re not afraid of him, then I don’t see why you even care.”

“There are way too many people interested in that little shit—and by extension you. Unpleasant people, whom I dislike dealing with, starting with Chris’ psychopath of a father. Quite frankly, he does not need the headaches.”

“You do realize those people he killed had been torturing me for years?”

“Oh, so he did it for you, did he? Is that what he told you?” Peter glanced at him. Stiles slumped down, sulking. No lying in Astral. Theo couldn’t even pretend he’d done it for Stiles. Peter snorted. “See, you play the poor, sad omega quite effectively but you can’t quite disguise that cynical little soul of yours. And you’ve not said a single thing to indicate you harbor illusions about your mate.” Stiles opened his mouth, and Peter said, “If you try to lie to me, I am taking you home.”

“Fine, but I know him. You’ve never even met him.”

“He told you that, did he?” Stiles winced. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with us. I don’t need to meet him. I just had to look at his actions. He killed five people while both of you were locked up inside a high security facility, which he made no effort to escape. That tells me he knew damn well he wouldn’t be punished. But he must have worried about you—that they would kill you in retaliation, so he made that impossible—so romantic when your lover likes you enough not to want you to die for them.”

Stiles could feel his face burning: there was something devastating in the way Peter laid it all out. He’d known deep down that’s what happened. Theo hadn’t even done him the courtesy of giving him the real reason he’d decided to wipe out the worst offenders at Eichen and he’d definitely not apologized, shrugging it off as something he’d had no choice about.

Peter turned into a large parking lot near a group of warehouses. There was a crowd lurking beneath a big neon sign that said “Jungle.”

Peter parked and got out, not waiting for Stiles, who had to jog to keep up. Of course Peter bypassed the line waiting to get in with just a nod to the bouncer. “Alpha Hale.”

“Jim.”

The moment they were inside, though, Peter grabbed him by the wrist. “What?” Stiles demanded.

Peter took a deep sniff and flashed his eyes. “The place is crawling with wolves tonight.”

“So? You said it was mixed.”

“Not like this. There must be a sit-down of some kind—rival packs. The Jungle is considered neutral territory. No pack can risk a fight around so many humans.”

“Should we leave?”

“We can’t now, it would make me look weak. You had to come out dancing tonight!”

“Fine, just call me a cab….” But Peter was pulling him towards the main dance space like a toddler at the grocery store. The Alpha circled the edge of the room, taking deep sniffs until he found a group of four women who looked like office workers on a girls’ night out.

To Stiles’ astonishment, Peter flashed them a thousand-watt smile. “Ladies, you look lovely tonight. I have a huge favor to ask of you.”

They looked ridiculously flattered by the attention and one of them said, “Sure, Alpha.”

“My little omega cousin is visiting from the country and I have some business I have to attend to, but I can’t just leave him to run around with all these wolves here tonight—his mate would kill me if he got into trouble. Could you keep an eye on him for me?”

They all started laughing. “Of course, Alpha.”

“Thank you so much, Ladies. His name is Stiles, and don’t let him drink, he’s underage.” And then to Stiles he flashed his eyes and said, “Misbehave omega, and I’ll put you over my knee right here.”

With that he disappeared into the crowd, leaving Stiles gaping that there could be that big an asshole in the world.

The women were all betas and they cooed over him like an actual baby. They told him their names: Sidney, Danielle, Chloe, and of course _Zoe_ , which caused the obligatory laugh.

“My name is Stiles,” he shouted over the music.

“Is this your first time in the city?” Danielle asked.

He nodded and tried to look wide-eyed and innocent as he joined their little group on the dance floor.

Stiles figured it was easier to just play along with Peter’s scenario, which actually hued pretty close to the facts: after all he was an underaged human omega, sporting an honest-to-goodness pack collar and a mating bite. Most people would assume he was from some traditional rural family who mated him off as soon as he presented, lest he do something that reflected poorly on his family’s honor. Though most werewolf packs disapproved of human mates, human omegas were the exception since for some reason they always produced wolf children.

Annoying as Peter’s invented background for him was, far more so was the bolt of lust Stiles felt when the Alpha threatened to spank him. While it sounded plenty kinky, he was not in fact some country bumpkin under the strict control of his werewolf cousin, but a certified medium at PsyCrime, and he’d be damned if he let Peter administer a public spanking at the Jungle.

He reminded himself that he was there to dance, and he supposed he could always get revenge on Peter by trying to get laid with one of these ladies—who cared if the youngest one looked at least ten years older. The one tiny good that came out of the nightmare at Eichen was that it forged Stiles into a genuine pan-dynamic, pan-species omnivore when it came to sex. In three years, there had been one other omega and one Alpha at Eichen with him, so the vast majority of his sexual experience was with betas. And though they did not trip his omega urges the way Chris and Peter did, there was something to be said for sex where he wasn’t out of his mind with the need to submit, where he could just have a good time with someone whose company he enjoyed.

He upped the suggestiveness of his dancing, which his partners seemed to find adorable. Soon he found himself sandwiched between Danielle and Zoe, swiveling his hips, laughing, forgetting—just like he’d hoped. At one point he noticed Peter standing near the bar, staring at him, eyes red. Stiles blew him a cheeky kiss. He remembered what Erica had said: omegas were werewolf crack. He had no problem whatsoever pushing that button, but a minute later he lost sight of Peter again.

Oh well, he was having fun with his beta ladies. They danced for about half an hour, when they took a break to get drinks. His companions ordered a Coke for him and Appletinis for themselves. He could practically hear Lydia’s voice in his head dismissing them as “Basic,” but they were nice and fun and seriously, who was he to judge? His guess that they worked together was spot-on: apparently it was Sidney’s birthday, so Stiles toasted her with the rest of them, and then they headed back to the floor. Though he noticed plenty of yellow eyes flashing in the strobe lights, he saw no sign of Peter.

He’d only been dancing a few minutes, when his arm was grabbed. He turned to see a huge, ripped male with a shaved head, who might be kinda hot but for the angry sneer marring his features.

“Dude, what the fuck,” Stiles said, trying to pull away, only to be met with red eyes and fangs. Great, another Alpha werewolf.

 _“Quiet omega,”_ the wolf snapped out in the Alpha tone. _“You’re coming with me.”_

Stiles couldn’t help baring his neck in submission. His companions just waved sympathetically, assuming this was his mate. The wolf dragged him past the bar and through one of those red velvet barriers into a private room.

Sitting in state was another werewolf, also tall but thinner, with reddish blond hair and a kind of _pointy_ face, narrow, which Stiles decided had to be a sign of villainy. Stiles was even more sure when he was pushed to his knees in front of the guy.

“My, my, what have we here?” the man said in a fancy English accent, right out of a friggin Bond movie. “What is your name, omega?”

When Stiles didn’t answer right away, the huge guy behind him dug his claws into his shoulder and growled, “Answer him, human.”

“Stiles,” he said, hoping that wouldn’t mean anything to them.

“And whose mate are you, little one? _Answer me_!”

Stiles fought the command but it was hopeless: why his idiot dynamic had evolved so that they were unable to defy Alphas went against all reason and logic—that is, unless the only thing you cared about was churning out babies. _Thank you, Mother Nature, you fucking bitch_. But that was life as an omega. “Theo Raeken’s,” he muttered.

“So you were right, Ennis. Very interesting.” Of course Stiles couldn’t help starting at the name Ennis: the giant who currently had his claws in Stiles’ shoulder had murdered Marco. “You’ve heard that name, have you?”

 _“Don’t answer, Stiles.”_ It was Peter, thank god, though he shocked himself at how relieved he was to see the asshole Alpha. “Deucalion, you seem to have made off with my omega. One might call that grounds for a challenge.”

“Oh, but he’s not yours, is he? He’s Theo Raeken’s.” Deucalion flexed his claws. “It seems to me that right here, we have a very simple solution to our problem Alpha—we’ll just kill his mate.”

“My goodness, Deucalion, declaring war against the Hale pack? That seems a tad excessive to get rid of one teenaged werewolf currently locked up in supermax.”

“Last I checked, you are not head of the Hale pack, Peter, and I really don’t see why Talia would risk her people over one human.”

“Hmm,” Peter said, pulling out his phone. “That’s an interesting theory: you are threatening to kill an omega currently living under Hale protection in order to target his werewolf mate? Let’s call her, shall we? See what she says.”

“He’s not under your protection, he’s under the protection of that hunter you’re mated to.”

“Please, not that _again_ ,” Peter drawled. “How long are you going to beat on this drum, Duke? It’s been almost fifteen years. It was Talia’s decision whether to throw me out of the pack, and I don’t see what business it is of yours.”

It was probably not the best idea given that this psycho was threatening to kill him, but Stiles couldn’t leave it alone. Peter’s hatred of Theo made sense, sort of, because he was a bitch and had to deal with the Alpha’s mate as his tenant, but Deucalion? Seriously, why was the werewolf Voldemort treating _Theo_ like his Harry Potter?

“Why the fuck do you guys hate Theo so much?” he blurted out. “Aren’t you some bigshot on the Werewolf Council? Why would you give a flying fuck about some random werewolf locked up in Eichen House?”

All three werewolves stared at him, which was weird. Peter especially looked thoughtful. Deucalion recovered first. “You haven’t taught your omega manners, have you?”

Ennis raised his hand as if to smack him, but Peter was there. “Touch him and you _will_ be meeting me in a challenge.” There was no doubting he was deadly serious.

Stiles couldn’t help shuddering. Peter was seriously hot, like _scorching hot_ when he did that.

G _ood going, Stiles. Just go get turned on in a room full of werewolves who are threatening to off you_.

Deucalion caught it of course. “Oh, I see. That collar isn’t just a prop. Have you and your hunter taken him as your whore? Well, I can’t admire your taste, but that is one way of dealing with our rogue Alpha.”

“You say that,” Stiles snapped back. “But I bet you’d love to get a taste of this.”

“We’re done here.” Peter grabbed Stiles by the elbow and pulled him to his feet.

“Just so you know: I blow Chris for free,” Stiles shouted as they exited. “But for you wolves, it’ll cost a thousand bucks!”

Peter was giving him the side-eye as they made their way back along the dance floor towards the front of the club. “What?” Stiles demanded.

“A thousand for a blow job?”

“I’ll do it for free if you fuck me,” Stiles snarled.

“Well Duke was right about one thing: we’re going to have to work on your manners, aren’t we, princess.”

“Sure, go for it--and good fucking luck!”

“Oh I will, and there’s no luck involved.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I made up an 8-tracks playlist of songs I listened to while writing this. It includes Radiohead, Stone Roses, and Tears for Fears. Hope you enjoy: [Astralogy](https://8tracks.com/liliaford/astralogy).


	14. Chapter 14

As soon as they got to the car, Peter said, “Take that sweatshirt off.”

“Why?” Stiles demanded.

“Because you’re not putting your bare ass on my leather seats.”

“What the fuck?”

“Normally, I’d just move things to the alley behind the club, but I am not putting on a show for Ennis fucking Marks. Of course, if you’d rather wait until we get back to the townhouse to get started, I suppose we’ll have to. Let’s just hope I’ll still be in the mood.”

“Oh my god, you are such a dick,” Stiles said for what felt like the hundredth time, but he did pull his sweatshirt off and put it over the seat.

“Shove your pants down and get in,” Peter ordered, getting into the car himself. “Don’t forget the seatbelt—safety first.”

“Do you ever fucking stop?”

“No. Now clasp your hands behind your neck and leave them there. Touch yourself and this is over.”

“Dude!” Of course now that the possibility of touching his dick was off the table, he shot so hard he could pound nails. He couldn’t help squirming in the seat.

They pulled out of the parking lot. As soon as they were on the main road, Peter reached over and ran a single finger lightly along his dick. “Holy shit,” he groaned. Peter gave a little pinch to the end. “Fuck! You are the literal worst.”

“Actually, I take silver in that event. The gold goes to your _mate_ ,” Peter said, running his thumb along the top of Stiles dick and then down. “And really, what does that say about you, pet, that you’re so quick to get mixed up with this… _team_ , shall we say.”

“Peter!”

“Now here’s the deal with tonight, pet. Impatient, naughty boys who cum without permission don’t get fucked, so if you want my cock, you will control yourself. Are we clear? Answer me, please.”

“Fine, yes.”

“Good boy. There’s lube in the dash. Put your legs up on the seat and start getting yourself ready.”

“Who keeps lube in their dash?” Stiles muttered as he opened it and saw a full tube sitting there.

“Considerate people who prefer lube to fucking dry.”

“Omega here, remember!”

“I’ll take that to mean you’ve only ever used body wash.” Fine. It’s not like Eichen kept lube stocked with the soap and toothpaste. And anyway, he and Theo mostly had sex in Astral, which Stiles should probably stop thinking about _NOW_ given how good Peter was at reading him.

He tried putting his legs on the seat, but got tangled in his jeans and struggled to shove them off one leg. He had to put his seat back so he could get his hips forward enough to reach. But that done, he flicked open the lube.

“Just a dab to start,” Peter murmured. “Rub your index finger on your hole. Don’t breech until I tell you.”

Jesus, just his voice—it was doing things to him. Peter really was the worst, but he was a sexy motherfucker, and the guy knew how to give an order. “I swear if we get stopped, I’m going to kill you,” Stiles groaned.

“Good thing I have Council plates on this car then. Okay, good boy. You can put in one finger now. ”

“Fuck that burns,” he groaned. They were almost home, thank god.

“Does it?” Peter said. “When did you last have sex?”

He almost said, _in the physical?_ but stopped himself. _Get it the fuck together, Stiles_. “I can’t remember,” he groaned. “Six weeks, probably.”

“So you and Chris?” Peter sounded genuinely surprised.

Stiles snapped his gaze over, suddenly afraid of something. “He wouldn’t.”

“He wouldn’t?” Peter’s expression turned calculating.

“He said something about his instincts—like, he’d want to make a claim. Fuck, is that a problem? Am I a problem? Are you guys going to get jealous on me, cuz….”

“What are you talking about?”

“Why do you care if he fucked me? He said you’re open—why do you care?”

“Calm down, you misinterpreted…”

“Swear it,” he practically screamed, feeling his anxiety soar. “Swear he’s not jealous—you’re not jealous. Cuz I really can’t deal if I fuck something up for you guys.”

Peter had the nerve to laugh. “My my, aren’t you confident. I suppose I should be relieved that you have an actual ego under all that omega apologizing.”

“Jesus fuck, Peter!” And now he was worried he’d start crying.

“Stiles!” The werewolf pulled over and put the car in park so he could put his hand on Stiles’ cheek. “ _Omega, listen_. Even I’m not that big an asshole. I swear on my pack that you are no threat to what I have with Chris.” The relief was so strong it felt physical, like a jolt. “You were that afraid?” Peter was watching him almost like Chris did, probably getting yet more information off him that he couldn’t afford to give up.

He leaned into Peter’s hand. “Will you please just fuck me?”

Peter reached over and gave his dick a sharp pull. “Six weeks? I take it that means sex in the physical? Well, I guess that explains your scent—each time you’ve come inside, our house smells like a brothel for hours.”

Of course. Three years he’d fought to keep these secrets buried, so that Peter and Chris could yank them out, one by one, in less than a week. He couldn’t decide if they were just that smart or the people at Eichen were that dumb. Or given the way his libido kept ramping up, maybe it just came down to Alpha mojo: part of nature’s mission to maximize anything that helped omegas get knocked up. Alphas were good at reading his kind. And none of it was damping his libido a bit—in fact, the perpetual emotional rollercoaster seemed to be shoving it into overdrive.

Peter parked and opened his door. “Get those pants on—there’s nothing Deucalion would like better than for me to get busted on an indecent exposure charge with another Alpha’s mate.”

A weird thought occurred to Stiles: he was a medium at PsyCrime. While it wasn’t quite sitting on the Werewolf Council, he had plenty to lose himself.

Somehow he managed to get the door to his apartment unlocked. Next second, Peter had him shoved against the front door and they were kissing desperately.

As they took a tiny break for a breath, Stiles tried to pull Peter towards the bedroom. “No bed,” he said and instead nodded at the couch. Stiles had half thought they’d lie down on it, but instead Peter pushed him to bend over the back. “Get those jeans off,” Peter ordered.

Stiles had just pushed them down and next thing he felt a mighty smack.

“What the fuck!” he shouted.

He tried to get up, but Peter easily held him in place as he lay down a steady series of slaps, alternating cheeks, each hard enough to burn, but not to bruise. “You really have been an unbelievable brat. I’m actually impressed. I didn’t think you had it in you. But you should know, pet, that there is _very little_ that I like better than providing nice, wholesome discipline to misbehaving boys.”

Holy shit. This was nothing like when Chris spanked him. That had felt calming, almost comforting, and profoundly safe. This felt filthy and slutty and so fucking hot. Peter hadn’t even touched his dick, and yet he was getting so turned on he was worried he might cum just from this--which was so _not happening._ He was getting that cock inside him tonight.

Also, he refused to deal with Peter’s ego if the Alpha spanked him to orgasm, not to mention the precedent it would set for any future fucks.

But of course his dick hadn’t gotten the message. Stiles realized he was pumping his hips, because the damn thing was straining, desperate to shoot. Peter noticed of course. He reached over and gripped him. “Oooh, very nice. That’s just what we like to see: dutiful boys willing to show their gratitude for their discipline, but we already discussed that you’re not to cum before you’re riding my cock or this is all over, which would be _such_ a shame. Now do I need to use the Alpha tone, or can you control it?”

Stiles tried to garble out a choice comeback, but mysteriously his “fuck you” sounded more like “please god, please.”

“Aren’t you sweet. Now you’re getting it. Docile boys know to depend on their Alpha. So here you go: _You don’t cum until I’m inside you, omega.”_

Stiles moaned: Chris’ Alpha tone was like an electric shock, but Peter’s felt like silk--it rippled through him, relaxing his will, like it could just melt away any resistance he had to his Alpha’s commands. It left him more turned on than ever, but also almost languid with the yearning to obey.

Peter finally left off spanking him, and next the Alpha’s fingers were inside his ass, testing, searching. “That’s right, nice and pliant--you’ll need to be good and loose, sweetheart, if you’re going to take my cock.”

“Just,” he slurred. “Just fuck me already.”

“Tsk tsk, rude boys don’t get fucked,” Peter said and gave him five hard smacks in quick succession. “Is that enough, or do you need more?”

“Enough,” he gasped. “Please.”

“Good boy.” Peter pulled back so he could unzip his pants. _Finally_. Stiles looked over his shoulder, hoping that the Alpha was at least as turned on as he was.

Which woke him _right the fuck up_. Peter _was_ turned on. Holy shit. _That_ was a monster. Goddamn werewolves! He’d thought Theo was huge. Theo _was_ huge, but it was rarely an issue since they almost always had sex in Astral. But he was seriously regretting his six weeks of celibacy in the physical right now.

“Uh….” he said.

“Having second thoughts? I thought you wanted to cum. Uh, so disappointing, but if you don’t, you don’t,” Peter drawled, pretending to put away his cock.

“Fuck you,” he snarled. “Do it.”

“Manners, pet.” Peter gave him another five slaps, to his thighs this time, but he didn’t waste any more time, pushing his cock against Stiles’ hole. It was barely breaching, but Stiles gripped the couch cushions, breathing through the sensation. He was an omega, he reminded himself--human or werewolf, omegas were made to take knots. This wasn’t even a knot--he could do this.

But the werewolf was barely in a centimeter, and _dayum_. It didn’t hurt, yet, but the fear was there, and he could feel himself tightening up in response.  

“Easy there, princess. I would never hurt you,” Peter crooned. The Alpha pushed in another inch, and even though it should hurt, it didn’t, not at all.

He looked over his shoulder and Peter had a concentrated expression on his face. “Holy shit, are you taking my pain?” he groaned.

“Nice trick, right? But I can’t do this forever, so how about you _relax and stop fighting me, omega_.”

_Holyshitholyshitholyshit._

There was that silky ripple again as his muscles relaxed, welcoming the Alpha, letting him take possession, until Peter was fully seated. He rested there for a minute, letting Stiles get accustomed to him, gradually easing off whatever mojo he’d worked to draw pain.

It was overwhelming, but it was also _insane_. It didn’t hurt, but man did he feel it. It was like being knotted, only knotting usually came at the end of a good, hard boning.

 _Fuck_!!!! He’d never felt anything like this.

“How are you doing, pet?” Peter murmured in his ear.

He couldn’t really talk beyond a groan, but he managed a nod.

“Well, well, I am impressed, omega. Are you a little knot-whore?”

“Only if you shut up and fuck me,” he managed to gasp.

Peter gave him another smack to his flank. “Alright then,” he said silkily. He pulled out and thrust in hard.

And then Stiles knew what it was to be fucked. Seriously, this was real _last two people on earth, no tomorrow_ shit. It was _biblical_.

It was literally like being fucked on a knot, which of course made him unbearably curious about what it be like to actually be knotted by the fucking leviathan of dicks.

Which was just great. Why did this happen to him? He had a feeling he was going to be spending _way_ too much of his alone-time in his bed, indulging in an endless stream of gross, slutty fantasies about Peter Hale’s knot.

Meanwhile, Peter was pulling Stiles’ leg up to rest on the couch so he could improve his angle—like he was going for the merit badge for great fucking.

Peter didn’t even have a hand on his dick, but Stiles was ridiculously close to cumming, which was just pissing him off.

But then the werewolf actually growled, “Your fucking scent,” like he was annoyed that he liked it? Wow. It looked like Erica was right—what had she said? _Ambrosia_.

Peter was actually nestling against Stiles’ neck near the collar, making snarly sounds in a very wolfy way. Stiles couldn’t help a warm rush of _something_ that was enough to derail his irritation that Peter was going to be the guy who ruined sex for him because he was that good.

But his smug pride that Peter was at least as into this as Stiles was abruptly complicated by the sensation of fangs on his neck—fangs dangerously close to a certain unwanted mating bite.

“Dude!” was all he managed when a bunch of things seemed to happen at once. He was cumming, Peter’s fangs were breaking the skin, and the world was whiting out.

He lurched, utterly disoriented, and then he was. . . somewhere else? Literally, he was standing in a strange room he was positive he’d never seen before. It was not the kind of room you’d forget, mostly because it was fancy as shit, like an actual palace—with super-high ceilings and tapestries and weird wooden paneling. At the far end there was a canopied bed with curtains, so it was impossible to see if anyone was actually sleeping there.

“Stiles, what are you doing here?”

“Theo?” he croaked. Theo was _here_? “What is this place?”

“Stiles, how did you get here?” Theo asked again.

“How did I get here? I wasn’t asleep,” he murmured, realizing he must be in Astral. How was that even possible? Peter had been fucking him, and then he’d bitten him—right over Theo’s mating bite—and then somehow he’d been thrust into Astral?

“Stiles!”

“I wasn’t asleep. Did you pull me in? What is this place?” he rambled. But Theo was moving towards him and some omega instinct finally reared up. Something was wrong. Stiles had never seen Theo like this—he was angry, but he was also afraid? Stiles’ mind balked: it was just one of the facts of his existence that Theo didn’t _do_ fear, like it was one of those missing components of his personality, along with empathy and ethics, that led Eichen’s staff to throw around terms like sociopathy and conduct disorder.

“Did you come looking for me?” Theo demanded, grabbing him by the throat. “Hale sent you? Or was it Argent?”

“What the fuck? No! You know damn well I’ve never once entered Astral without you pulling me in.” But then, how the hell did he get here? “None of this makes sense—I wasn’t even asleep!”

Theo wrinkled his brow in concentration, which was usually a prelude to shifting their location. “Fucking wolfsbane. I can’t get us out of here,” he said, wincing as if he hadn’t wanted to tell Stiles that. “What the fuck were you doing when you entered?” Theo sounded furious. This was really bad.

Stiles would have given up almost anything to be able to lie right then, but of course this was Astral. “Peter was fucking my brains out,” he said as defiantly as he could manage. Theo snapped his other hand up to touch Stiles’ mating bite. Something about touching it caused the world to flash in and out.  

“What…..?”

But Theo had wolfed out. “I’ll kill him. He bit you!”

If it hadn’t been Astral, Stiles would have puked. Saying it here was as good as a promise to carry through with it. “No! You promised me.”

“He’s trying to steal my mate,” Theo roared.

“No, Theo, please. He doesn’t even like me—it was just a heat of the moment thing.”

“A born werewolf like Hale doesn’t bite some random omega he’s fucking, trust me.”

Christ, he was really angry. “You promised me!” Stiles started crying those weird glowy Astral tears. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt them. You swore you weren’t possessive. I told you I wouldn’t….”

Which was when the world upended again.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the cliffhanger yesterday. I'm not trying to torture people, I'm just trying to keep to a steady posting schedule, hopefully without any retcon. The end chapters have ballooned from one to three, but they are coming along nicely so I am hoping everything will go up as planned. The main events of the story are written--so even if there is a tiny delay, it's just the wrap-up, and a glimpse of how life goes on after the adventure etc. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much to everyone who has left comments. It feels beyond amazing, but it's also helping me to see what points people focus on and how they are responding to specific characters. So thank you again--please don't stop. : )

His stomach lurched, and suddenly he was back in his apartment, back in someone’s arms. Peter—

Only it wasn’t Peter.

“Chris?”

God, that felt right. Seriously, _nothing_ in his life had ever felt that right. He mashed his fact against Chris’ neck.

“Hey, are you okay?” Chris murmured.

“How….? Peter? What?”

Nothing made sense, except the relief he felt being near Chris. Fuck, he was falling hard for him. He forced down those impossible thoughts in favor of trying to figure out what had happened.

He was dressed—at least his pants were pulled up—and the Hale pack collar was gone? Chris was sitting on the couch, holding him in his arms, and, he realized, Peter was walking towards him with a steaming mug? The werewolf’s face looked blank—too blank. “Are you okay?” Stiles asked, sounding like one of those Mary-Sue omegas from a fifties TV show

That at least seemed to snap Peter out of it. “Am I okay? I’m not the one who just went into a coma during sex!” He handed him the mug. “Drink this!”

Stiles felt an unexpected pang. Peter was really upset. He felt like he was seeing him for the first time. When the werewolf was worried he used anger and assholery as a deflection. And he spent hours preparing delicious food because he had trouble using words to show he cared. Stiles got on a gut level why Chris loved this guy. He’d not doubted it before, because it was obvious and Chris wouldn’t be with someone he didn’t love, but Stiles had chalked it up to Chris’s tendency to collect misfit toys and hard-luck cases—or in Peter’s case, people who’d missed that day in Kindergarten when the teacher taught you to be nice and use your words. Though in fairness, Stiles had missed that day too.

Stiles took a sip. “That burns—what is it?”

“Ginger-turmeric tea. And I put a dash of cayenne in—if anything might revive you, I hoped that would.”

“Thanks,” he murmured, less for the tea, and more for the realization that at some point tonight, Stiles had become one of the people Peter cared about.

“And now maybe you’d liked to explain what happened!” Peter demanded.

“Fuck!” Stiles groaned, as he remembered himself. “I was in Astral, and now Theo wants to kill you.”

“Explain,” Chris said in that way of his that was totally calm but _sooooo_ dominant.

Stiles couldn’t help a nervous look at Peter—after all he was the one who’d been going to town on another Alpha’s mating bite. “Uh, we were, you know….”

“Fucking!” Peter said impatiently.

“And Peter might of gotten his fangs a little close to my mating bite.”

“What are you talking about?” Peter snapped, looking flabbergasted.

“Uh….” Stiles had no idea how to respond. It hadn’t seemed like a big deal—to him, a human omega—but Theo had made it sound like a huge deal.

Chris put a gentle hand on his head to tilt it back and pull his shirt away. Stiles felt the mark and the telltale sticky damp from blood. “Sweetheart, you didn’t realize?” Chris asked his mate.

Peter looked dazed as he plopped almost clumsily into one of the kitchen chairs. “No,” he finally admitted.

“Is there something wrong—is this a problem? Why is everyone so freaked out by this?” Stiles could feel the panic rising again.

He couldn’t get away from the idea that there were things he wasn’t getting about dynamic with these two, too many hidden pitfalls that as an omega he had no idea even existed.

“Enough!” Peter seemed to know exactly what was bothering him. “I told you in the car to stop worrying about that.” Chris raised his eyebrow in query, but Peter shook his head at him.

Whatever. Stiles felt annoyed at being kept in the dark, but he realized it wasn’t exactly the most important issue right now. “Fine, be that way, but it’s obvious that there’s some dynamic shit going on here that I’m not getting. But I think when Peter… _went dental_ on the mating bite, it shot me into Astral, to Theo—I don’t know what the fuck he was doing—he was somewhere weird, like _fancy_. A palace? Anyway, he definitely didn’t pull me in, and he wasn’t happy I was there either.” As he said it, he wondered if Theo had exaggerated his anger about the bite to cover over what he was doing.

“Stiles?” Chris could tell something was up with him.

“He was doing something—he didn’t want me to know.” Stiles was more and more confident that his guess was right. Theo was a lot of things, but he wasn’t really possessive—not in that stereotypical way. Their relationship would never have lasted past that first fuck if he had been. “It doesn’t matter—but he meant what he said about killing Peter. You….” He winced at the idea of saying anything about Astral out loud, but then Chris had said remote viewing didn’t work on him. Which made something occur to him. “Is that why you’re here—is that how I got out? Because you’re a nul?”

“When you didn’t wake up, Peter called me. As soon as I picked you up, you came to again. Now what were you saying?”

“Just… you can’t lie in Astral. I mean, Theo can almost lie, like he can mislead or evade, but even he can’t say something blatantly untrue. If he said he wants to kill Peter, that means he’ll try. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Peter snapped. “Did you ask him to murder me? Then don’t apologize for it.”

“I can be sorry that my mate wants to kill you, Peter. That’s just normal human shit, not fucked-up omega shit.”

“And I seem to recall telling you that he’s no threat to me.”

“Guys, enough,” Chris said. “Stiles, any idea what he was doing?”

“Not a clue.” Stiles forced himself to get off Chris’ lap, because he might be falling in love with the guy, but he was also about a 1000% done with Chris’ interrogations, not when it was clear he was withholding major amounts of information himself. “Okay, so here’s the deal. I am sick of the evasions. Are you guys ready to tell me why you’re all so fucking interested in Theo anyway?” Chris raised his eyebrows at him—nice try, but this time it wouldn’t work. “ _Werewolf politics_ , that was what you told me the first time I asked, right? Clever, and also not a lie so Chris gets a cookie. And you,” he pointed to Peter, “do not mention Eichen House because I’m not buying that either. Deucalion was not ready to murder me tonight because Theo offed some humans at a mental hospital.”

“Deucalion?” Chris sounded almost sharp.

“Don’t look at me!” Peter snapped at Chris. “You were the one who made me take him out to the Jungle. There was a pack negotiation there—Kali, Ennis, the twins, the whole fucking crew. They’ve clearly been keeping tabs on us, because Ennis sniffed Stiles out in barely forty minutes. Duke suggested that taking out Stiles was the perfect solution to our quote/unquote ‘problem Alpha.’”

For a fraction of a second, something that looked awfully like rage flashed over Chris’ face before he schooled his expression back to his usual chill half smile. “What did you say?”

“I told him any move against Stiles meant full-out war with the Hale pack.”

Chris whistled. “Your sister will back that?”

“I’ll call her in the morning, but yes. Murdering a human omega under our protection to target a werewolf?—absolutely.”

“Wow, that was pretty amazing!” Stiles shouted. “Both of you, but you _still_ haven’t answered my question!”

Chris shot a look at Peter that was remarkably like his “I told you so” look from earlier that evening. Peter snorted but said, “It wasn’t an unreasonable suspicion.”

“But I take it you believe me now?” Chris said.

“Yes, love, I believe you—are you happy?”

“Hey! Dial back the couple-speak for your poor tenant, please. You guys have proven your skills in evasion, and now I want answers.”

“What do you know about Theo Raeken?” Chris said.

“That sounds awfully like a question, but the answer is almost nothing—I know he’s an Alpha werewolf in Eichen House, who is insanely powerful in Astral.”

“You weren’t the slightest bit curious about him? Your murderous mate?” Peter sounded suspicious—how shocking.

“No, I wasn’t. The rule at Eichen was no personal stories—and trust me, it was not a rule anyone broke. For a few it was too painful to think about what they’d lost, and the rest of us had nothing happy to share—and I’ve still not gotten any fucking answers.”

“Peter, this really is your department,” Chris said.

“Fine. The short version is this: Theo Raeken is a lying, murdering, thieving little shit who runs a criminal gang of supernatural cutthroats.”

Oooookay. That was definitely an answer. Not one that he liked, but an answer all the same. Stiles had never suspected something like that, but he couldn’t really say he was surprised—he still felt vaguely ill at the memory of the night Theo bit him; not the bite itself, but the blasé way Theo treated the murder of five people—in particular, his use of the phrase, “something I had to take care of,” like he was going to the laundromat instead of using his claws to rip out three throats and his Astral power to sever two souls from their bodies so violently the victim died.

“Okay, I mean, that’s not good, obviously.” _To say the least_. “But I still don’t see why you’re mad—I mean, he’s been locked up for at least six months. I promise you Eichen is worse than any jail.”

“True,” Peter replied. “But thanks to certain psychic gifts which are supposed to be impossible, he has continued to communicate with his evil minions, causing the Werewolf Council no end of headaches.”

“Headaches?”

“Any time a werewolf is involved in a crime, it puts all of us at risk from humans, who already fear werewolves and vastly outnumber us. That’s why there is so much tension with bitten wolves, because they almost all become delinquents. We suspect your mate of everything from extortion, murder for hire, robbery, pushing Bane. Didn’t you wonder why he stayed in Eichen at all—an Alpha werewolf? He wasn’t locked up in the supermax unit until after the murders.”

“Uh, not really, but I guess I should have?”

“Yes, well he found out that the Council was debating putting a kill-order on him, so he chose the lesser of two evils—and now of course, he’s added an omega mate, a human no less, so if he ever does get out, there is no way he’ll be executed now.”

“Fucking A.” Stiles couldn’t help sinking down into the couch.

“I’m relieved that you begin to understand our dislike,” Peter continued. “That’s the Council. Deucalion’s grudge is somewhat less laudable: he hates him because he’s a bitten Alpha, and a teenaged one to boot, which shits on every fanatical belief he holds dear.”

“Bitten Alpha?” Stiles asked wearily.

“All bitten wolves are betas—it doesn’t matter what their dynamic was as a human—and they’re considerably weaker than born wolves.”

“So Theo….?”

“Somehow managed to take down a born Alpha werewolf, at the tender age of fifteen, no easy feat, let me tell you. And for reasons that remain mysterious, instead of losing his psychic gifts when he was turned, they remain stronger than ever.”

That was no joke. Theo was probably the strongest psychic in Eichen House. Well, except for Stiles. Too bad Stiles’ “gift” was useless to even defend himself, while Theo could literally kill with his.

“You couldn’t have just told me all of this?” he asked finally.

“A lot of people assumed you had to know, if you weren’t outright involved,” Chris said.

“People?”

“The people at Eichen, the Council, the FPMP.”

He probably shouldn’t blame them for suspecting him—he was Theo’s mate, after all. He didn’t miss the glaring lack of an apology during this explanation, but Stiles was getting that this was also part of Chris’ MO. The Alpha had made a call he’d deemed necessary, and he took responsibility for the consequences. Also telling: Chris had manipulated Stiles into spilling his most carefully guarded secrets, while keeping a thousand of his own—and _still_ not done anything to lose his trust. How did that work?

“So you were waiting for me to…what? Do something guilty? I’m surprised you just fessed up. It’s only been, what, five days? If I was guilty, I’d probably take for granted that you’d suspect me—I’d wait until I was sure you’d decided I was innocent before carrying out my dastardly plans.”

Chris practically beamed at him. “And this is why you are going to be a first rate investigator. You understand that, right?”

“Unless that was an extremely clever piece of misdirection,” Peter said sourly.

“You would say that, Peter,” Stiles sniped. “Why didn’t _you_ suspect me though?” he asked Chris.

Peter rolled his eyes, but Chris answered, “I told you before—I trust my instincts. Peter was worried I was blinded because you’re an omega—I take it you agree with me now?” Peter huffed but didn’t contradict him.

“So that was why you and Deucalion were all staring at me when I asked about Theo,” Stiles said. “You think he believed me?”

“No omega could lie to a room full of Alphas like that, not unless you were the greatest method actor who ever lived, which you are clearly not.”

Well that was something. Sadly, he could feel the exhaustion sucking him down. By any standard, this had been a really long day—he’d worked most of a normal day before walking about ten miles in the Beacon Hills Preserve to look for ghosts, survived a stressful meal with Peter, gone out dancing where he was threatened by a fanatic werewolf, fucked and then bitten by another one, leading to a particularly ugly confrontation with his “mate.”

He didn’t think he could stay up much longer, and he had no fucking clue what waited for him in Astral once he fell asleep.

“Stiles.” He blinked, realizing Chris had been speaking to him. “I think you should sleep upstairs with us tonight.”

“You what…?” Stiles was too tired for this.  

He looked over at Peter to see what he thought, but he had that blank expression that Stiles was starting to hate because he suspected it meant that Peter was hurting.

“Stiles, I don’t want you facing Raeken tonight. Based on what happened earlier, I don’t think you can enter Astral when I’m with you.”

Was this more of Chris’ hero complex? “It’s just putting off the inevitable—he can get to me any time we’re both asleep.”

Chris shot Peter one of their little couple-y looks, which made him feel like the titular wank in a game of monkey in the middle.

“Let’s go,” Peter said, snapping out of his funk. “You’re coming upstairs. Don’t make me use the Alpha tone.”

“Dude!”

“Stiles, humor us. Please,” Chris added. Humor them, _riiiiiight_. What about the poor omega? He was supposed to share a bed with not one but two smoking hot Alphas? And stay sane?  

Before he could figure out an effective argument, Peter swept him up in his arms.

“Shit, Peter!”

“Find him some pajamas,” Peter ordered Chris as he carried Stiles out of the apartment, through the garden and up the steps to the front door of the townhouse.

“I can walk!”

“So long as you don’t run, hmm omega?”

“Fine, I promise--if you tell me why you took the collar off before Chris came downstairs,” Stiles said, giving him a pointed look.

Peter looked almost sheepish and then put him on his feet. “You caught that, did you?”

“Yeah--what the fuck, man? What was going on down there?”

Peter looked like he was listening for something, Chris probably, and then said, “Do I have to tell you that Chris will never hurt you--or do you already know that?”

“I know that.”

“Good, because he’d rather die--and Stiles, that’s not an exaggeration. But Chris hasn’t always had as much control as he does now, and there are certain instincts of his that it’s best not to push on, especially when he’s exhausted like he is right now. Now that’s all you’re going to get. You’ll discover the rest for yourself soon enough, but you’re safe for tonight.” He gave him an evil smile and unlocked his door.

“What if I don’t want to be safe?” he muttered as they went inside.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with the earth-shattering--and I mean that literally--orgasm I gave you earlier; you’re practically sleepwalking as it is.” That was true enough. Chris came in then carrying his toothbrush and a T-shirt and some sweat pants, and somehow between exhaustion and the two Alphas, Stiles just let go. For once he was going to be the omega and let an Alpha take care of him.

He was too tired to wonder that it was actually Peter who nudged him upstairs, and guided him through brushing his teeth and taking a piss. And when Stiles couldn’t seem to get it together, it was Peter who pulled off his shirt and actually knelt down to yank his jeans off and help him into his T-shirt and sweats. Some part of him protested that he wasn’t even checking out Chris and Peter’s bedroom, even though he’d been curious as hell about it.

But Peter was tucking him into the huge, beautiful bed, while he vaguely registered Chris pulling up an armchair and placing it near the bed. He meant to tell them they should sleep in the bed with him, but he fell asleep before he could.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a bit less happens here, but I felt like the characters needed a tiny breather before things amp up again.

So either Chris’ plan worked or Theo had not tried to find him, because when Stiles woke up it was broad daylight, and he’d spent the whole night sleeping quietly— _in Chris and Peter’s bed_.

He popped up, not sure what he’d find. So he couldn’t say he was surprised or _not_ surprised to see that Chris was still in his chair, currently typing on a laptop. The rest of the bed showed no signs that anyone else had slept there.

“Good morning.” Chris smiled warmly. “Everything go okay?”

“Yeah, no Theo. Thanks for that.”

“Of course.” Chris really made it sound like nothing—like the least he could do, which was bullshit. He’d gone way past that—above and beyond as the saying went. Chris always did. Stiles was seriously beginning to worry that too many of Chris’ actions were driven by this Alpha hero complex, and he felt an abrupt, overpowering need to make Chris understand what Peter seemed to grasp intuitively: that he was not some pathetic omega who’d been taken advantage of.

No indeedy: Stiles had waded into that river of shit on his own two feet with both eyes open, no help needed.  

“I didn’t hate it—hate _him—_ Theo. I never did—I didn’t want the mating, but we were really involved, you know, boyfriends. It was always consensual between us.”

“I know that and I’m pretty sure you know that you are not responsible for Theo Raeken’s actions. But I’m not sure you understand that what Eichen did, apart from everything else, in not allowing you access to an Alpha for so many months after you presented, would have thrown your hormones into flux, putting your body under an incredible strain. That was bad enough, but forbidding you from seeing your Alpha after the mating risked causing you permanent physical and psychological damage. Any other institution would have been charged with criminal negligence. So I’m torn: if I question your ability to consent, then I risk becoming another of the people who’ve tried to take away your agency. But I also suspect that if you saw another omega in a comparable situation you’d at least admit the possibility that they couldn’t make truly free choices under those conditions.”

“Uh, I didn’t, uh realize that. I mean, I’m on suppressants,” he said lamely. He really had no idea what to make of that, except that maybe he should do some actual research on omega physiology and then see a non-evil doctor—like ASAP. He shook his head. “Sorry, and I really appreciate your saying that—I do, it’s just everything was so fucked up there, that will never even make my top ten list. But just—I’m not proud of me and Theo, and some of the stuff we did, like, in Astral I’m genuinely ashamed of. Part of me never wants to see him again, but part of me can’t stand the idea of losing him, even knowing what he’s done. I just wanted you to know.”

“Thank you for telling me, kiddo, and you can always tell me anything. But understand: _nothing_ you tell me about Eichen or Theo Raeken can change a single thing I think about you.”

His eyes burned, which felt like too much heavy shit for first thing in the morning, especially when they had actual life and death stuff to deal with. Chris as usual seemed to pick up on it. “Look if you’ve slept long enough, Peter is making some breakfast. Why don’t you grab a quick shower and come down and we’ll try to figure out our next step.”

It sounded like a plan. Fifteen minutes later, Stiles went downstairs, hoping he wasn’t telegraphing how awkward he felt. Cleaning up in the shower had served as an all-too-palpable reminder of something that had been shoved aside by his impromptu trip to Astral: that he and Peter had been fucking at the time. Did that make them lovers? Fuck-buddies? Somehow he felt like Peter’s usual ally-fucks did not entail morning-after breakfasts with his mate. (And that wasn’t even going near his uneasiness over what it meant that he’d had sex with Peter but not Chris).

He should have recalled that the werewolf had an ego approximately the size of Ohio and did not really do awkward. “You’re up. Good,” Peter said, barely glancing at him. “Popovers will be out of the oven in two minutes.”

Chris was at the far end of the room on his cell, pacing back and forth, clearly not happy about what he was hearing. He reached around with his hand to rub his neck—like he was in pain, which made Stiles feel awful. He knew his boss was exhausted after a hellish week, but instead of getting a good night’s sleep, Chris had been up dealing with Stiles’ shit all night.

Peter was watching his husband too, and he did not look pleased. It was on the tip of Stiles’ tongue to apologize but at the last second some impulse caused him to swerve and say: “Hey, can I help with something?”

He could have sworn something similar happened with Peter: he opened his mouth to say something cutting and then squelched it, saying instead, “You could help finish the orange juice—just hold the orange half down on the juicer—the machine does most of the work.”

Stiles felt an unexpected pang towards the werewolf. He wished he could go up and kiss him, but he had no idea if it would be appropriate. Instead, he got to work on the orange juice, which _seriously_ —who squeezed their own orange juice? The answer being, Peter Hale, Alpha werewolf.

Even by his usual iron-chef standards, Peter had outdone himself. The table was covered with an array of jams and jellies that looked homemade, a big plate of bacon and sausages, another with scrambled eggs, and yet another with cut-up fruit.

“Jesus, how long have you been up? That looks amazing.”

“Yes, well I figured we all needed to fortify ourselves for when your mate comes to kill me.” Yesterday Stiles would have assumed Peter was being nasty, but the werewolf’s eyes were actually sparkling as he said it, and Stiles realized he was just being snarky, making light of the crazy-train that Stiles had driven right through his picture-perfect life.

Stiles rolled his eyes, again miraculously smothering any impulse to apologize.

Peter pulled a pan filled with golden, puffy muffin-like things from the oven and held it up for Chris, who made his “Five minutes” gesture. “Go ahead,” he mouthed, and headed upstairs.

Peter sighed, but tipped the muffin-things into a wooden bowl lined with cloth napkins and brought it to the table. He emptied the orange juice squeezing-machine into a pitcher and filled three small glasses with the fresh juice, which did smell amazing, about a million times better than the stuff from the carton.

“Who’s Chris talking to?” Stiles asked as he helped himself from the uber-gourmet ‘French Press’ they used for coffee.

Peter listened for a second. “Boyd. He’s been on since he came downstairs. Well, go ahead. We’re not waiting. I’ve told him a thousand times, popovers are best straight from the oven.”

Stiles filled his plate, marveling at both the spread and how normal this felt—how did that happen? And most weirdly, he was actually glad Chris was out of the room for the moment, because there was something he wanted to ask Peter, and some instinct warned him it would be better to ask privately. “Do you think I could take a look at whatever you guys have on Theo? The Council must keep files, right?”

Peter paused from buttering his popover to give him a real Alpha stare, which Stiles somehow was able to meet without any of the usual submissive omega groveling. “Remarkable,” Peter murmured and then continued in his usual challenging tone, “That depends: what do you want it for?”

“I want to take over his operation, obviously.” Peter looked less than impressed by his snark, so Stiles added, “I don’t know yet. It’s just a feeling, but I really want to look at his file.”

“Chris told me about the inferences you made from the crime boards after you found Marco Gutierrez’ ghost. He seems to think you have a knack for this.”

Stiles shrugged. Chris had been nothing but encouraging, but he was nice like that. “What do you think?”

Peter waited a second before replying, “I think Chris has very good instincts when it comes to his team. Fine, I’ll make some calls and see if I can get the file messengered over here. Look, just a warning: You may have gathered, werewolves prefer to manage their own affairs, with a minimum of human involvement. That applies less to you since you are, willing or not, the omega mate of an Alpha werewolf, but Chris is in a… sensitive position.”

“Because he’s an Alpha.”

“And because he’s head of PsyCrime-- _both_. I don’t keep secrets from him—and frankly neither should you. But it’s better for everyone if he’s not seen as involved in werewolf business.”

So his instinct had been right. “Erica said something about that to me—our first day.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “She’s the last wolf I’d choose to help someone navigate the subtleties of werewolf-human relations.”

“Why? She seems totally comfortable with humans—at least compared to, say, Isaac, or even Boyd.”

“Precisely. I can’t tell if it’s ignorance or willfulness, but she’s constantly trampling every rule and nuance of hierarchy, behavior around established packs, and familiarity with humans; even for a bitten wolf, she’s remarkably annoying.”

“Probably why she thinks you’re a dick, but I think she’s amazing. And she’s as loyal as they get, especially to Chris.”

“Believe it or not, princess, that is not something I ever question.”

Speaking of. Chris came in then—he looked if anything more wrecked. “Hey, sorry about that….” he started.

“What happened?” Peter demanded the second he saw him.

Chris made his wry smile. “It appears that Theo Raeken broke out of the supermax unit of Eichen early this morning.”

“Fuck,” Stiles groaned.

“That presumptuous little brat,” Peter sniffed.

“I should…” Chris started, but Peter stopped him. “No! Whatever it is can wait ten minutes while you sit down and eat a proper breakfast. And no apologies from you,” he added with a sharp look at Stiles.

Chris conceded instantly, and took his seat. “God, Popovers,” he groaned, when he lifted the cloth on the bowl. “You know how much I love you, right?”

“Of course I do,” Peter smirked. Peter’s phone rang then. He glanced at it. “Just in time. It’s Talia.” He stood up and hit the button and said into the phone, “One second, darling,” and then to Stiles, “Make sure Chris eats some eggs and at least two popovers. That should help the headache.” He walked out the room, drawling, “Sister dearest, do not start yelling before you’ve heard me out….”

“Is his sister mad?” Stiles asked. “She’s his Alpha, right?”

Chris chuckled. “Probably not, he just can’t help pushing her buttons like he does with everyone.”

“This is about me—because of what happened last night with Deucalion? Is it really that serious?”

“It’s possible it will all blow over—let’s hope.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“Honestly, I’m not knowledgeable enough to assess this. As it is, I would never describe Peter as paranoid, but even by werewolf standards, he has a… _low tolerance_ for threats. And I agree that what Deucalion did last night was at the very least concerning. We would be foolish not to take measures.”

“Sorry—I know it’s not my fault but if I weren’t mated….”

“Stiles, you need to understand that the Hale pack has been at odds with Deucalion since before you were born. The Hales were the most important werewolf pack pushing for the Great Reveal and peaceful integration with humans, something Deucalion violently opposed. At most you’re just the excuse for their latest round.”

“And now Theo is threatening Peter—I should try to talk to him tonight, see if I can get him to back down.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I doubt Peter will agree to that.” Chris was speaking in that careful manner that Stiles was beginning to suspect meant that he was being highly selective about the information he was relaying. But before Stiles could call him on it, Peter came back in. “We’re on.”

“Really? That was fast.”

“What can I say, I am incredibly persuasive.”

“Are you?—that would be a first.”

“Fine. Talia’s not a fool—she’s known for a while that this was a possibility.”

“You’re sure about this?” Chris sounded…maybe not worried but something close.

“How long have you known me, Christopher? Do I often do things I don’t choose?” Peter walked behind Chris and kissed the top of his head and then started massaging his shoulders. He nudged Chris’ shirt away so he could touch the skin. There were black lines running through his veins. Peter was taking his pain—there was a lot, too much. Stiles was surprised at how adamantly he disliked that; he’d assumed he’d been deadened to other people’s pain ages ago, especially someone like Chris, who’d basically won life’s trifecta—gorgeous, smart, and successful. But he felt awful that not only had Chris not slept because of him, he’d not had any time with Peter.

“Uh, I should… maybe do the dishes….”

Peter snorted, and Stiles recollected his first attempt at doing dishes. Did he really need to remind both Alphas of how unbelievably incompetent he was? God what an idiot…

But before the spiral could really get going, Peter gave Chris a light kiss on the top of his head and then yanked Stiles to his feet by his arm. “Make your calls, darling. Stiles here is long overdo for a lesson on how to load a dishwasher.”

Something about that seemed to leave Chris looking even more wrecked. “I couldn’t do this without you. You know that right?” he said huskily.

“Good thing you’ll never have to then. Let’s go, princess, time to make a proper omega out of you.”

“Fuck you, Peter,” Stiles said without heat.

Of course, Peter was absurdly picky about the principles of loading the dishwasher, top rack vs. bottom rack, and the 67 items that required hand washing. What was surprising was that he was also patient and even seemed to enjoy showing Stiles around his kitchen. So much that Stiles had an idea. “Could you, like, show me how to cook….uh…”

“Cook? It’s not like we expect it.” Which seemed like a weird thing to say, since it had never occurred to him that they would expect it.

“Look, it’s not an omega thing, I just—I don’t know anything. Being in Eichen for so long… I don’t like feeling so fucking incompetent, useless.”

Peter eyed him narrowly but didn’t argue with his choice of adjectives, which felt weirdly refreshing. Stiles couldn’t always keep a lid on his self-esteem issues, but that didn’t mean he was begging for reassurance. “Cook what?” Peter asked.

“Uh, maybe the pasta thing from the first night.”

“That was handmade pasta, not really a good choice for someone whose previous cooking experience consisted of opening jars of salsa. Let’s say we start with something a bit simpler. Do you like Macaroni and Cheese? You can help me make it for dinner tonight.”

“Yeah—that would….”

“It’s done.” Chris came in then.

“Uh, can I ask…” Stiles said.

“Of course,” Chris said. “I’ve called a team meeting.”

“We’re going in today?”

“Actually, everyone is coming here—I told them 3pm.”

“Well there you go,” Peter said to Stiles. “You can help me fix up some snacks, while you,” he said to his husband, “can go lie down for a few hours. Don’t argue, Christopher. I can’t manage these threats without you and right now you are running on fumes.”

Chris nodded sheepishly, kissed his mate, and disappeared upstairs. Once he was gone, Peter warned, “Do not try to apologize—and hold the questions; you’ll not score any popularity points with your teammates if they think you’re getting inside information by virtue of living here.”

With that, Peter set him to work peeling carrots and cutting up onions, making two pots of chili, one with meat and a vegetarian one with black beans for Lydia, along with three trays of “ _of course we’re not using a box_ ” brownies, apparently the usual choice for when he had to feed Chris’ team.

Stiles never imagined Peter would be so easy to spend time with, but the hours passed quickly. They bickered almost continuously, and Peter was obviously an egomaniac in the kitchen, but once again Stiles was struck by what a patient teacher he was; despite his expert skills, Peter was able to help Stiles see that a lot of cooking was really simple and more than doable for him. Best of all, he got the story of how Peter learned to cook, which was also how he earned his “reprobate” label from his family: apparently he’d gotten into UCLA and let his parents think he’d actually started, when really he’d blown it off so he could move to Venice, Italy, where he spent a year taking cooking lessons.  

At five of three, Peter tipped his head, listening. “Chris is up, good, because I suspect everyone will be punctual. Come here for second, pet.”

“Pet’s worse than princess,” Stiles griped but obeyed.

Peter put a finger under his chin to tilt his head up. “Get through this meeting without once apologizing and I’ll fuck you later if you want.”

Stiles had _not_ been expecting that: the Alpha hadn’t touched him or made so much as a suggestive remark over the previous two hours. “Chris….?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” He didn’t know why, since he still thought Peter was a dick, but he couldn’t lie to himself: he trusted him.

“Listen carefully: I. Will. Never. Do. _Anything that will hurt Chris_. I will never _let you do anything that will hurt Chris_. Got it? I’ll keep telling you that as many times as you need until you believe me.”

And there was his answer, why he trusted the werewolf: because Peter understood. He might be a spoiled, wealthy Alpha, heir to a powerful family, but he didn’t question for a moment that Stiles, an orphaned omega and Eichen House reject, _needed_ to protect Chris, another rich, powerful Alpha.

For answer, Stiles reached over and grabbed Peter by the shirt and kissed him hard. “I believe you.”

The doorbell rang. “Then let’s get this party started.”


	17. Chapter 17

The bell rang again. Peter took a sniff and then rolled his eyes. “Erica, who else. Go answer.”

“It’s not my house,” Stiles whined.

“Isn’t it?” Peter gave him a smack on the butt. “Last I checked you live here.”

“Dude!” Seriously, Peter picked now to get him all hot and bothered? Right before his werewolf teammates got here?

But Erica was ringing a third time, so he hustled to open the door. “Hey partner,” she said, “You know what this is about?”

“Uh, maybe, I’m not sure,” he mumbled.

She tossed him her jacket and gave him a one-armed hug, but then gasped. “Holy shit, your scent….”

“Erica.” Peter was suddenly right there.  

“Oooookay, none of my business. Right,” she said, moving further into the house.

“Don’t close that,” Peter said, nodding at the street, where Stiles now noticed Boyd coming towards the house.

Boyd gave him the side-eye but restricted his remarks to a laconic, “Peter, Stiles.”

“Boyd,” the Alpha said with so little sarcasm it had to count as respect.

“Isaac’s just behind me,” Boyd added so Stiles waited by the door for his least favorite colleague, who also did a double take when he caught Stiles’ scent, but at least seemed too surprised for one of his bitchy comments. _Just fucking great._ Peter might have mentioned that Stiles’ shower had not done anything to wash off the scent of their fucking. He wondered if it was as obvious to a human Alpha like Chris.

He thought about retreating to the kitchen to, like, rub garlic on himself or something, but the bell was ringing again. He opened the door for Lydia and Jackson, looking as gorgeous and fashionable as ever. Lydia swanned past him but Jackson was immediately in his space, sniffing hard. “What the fuck?” He looked gobsmacked.

“Oh my god, enough! I got laid, get over it,” Stiles snapped.

Jackson was opening his mouth to respond, when they heard a warning cough. “Hi Chris,” Lydia said, pulling Jackson further into the house.

Stiles looked over to see Chris coming down the stairs, thankfully looking better than he did this morning.

“Lydia, everyone, thank you for coming in on a Saturday.”

Chris gestured towards the main seating area to the right of the front door. Erica grabbed Stiles’ hand so he could sit next to her, which felt good. Even better Lydia took the other seat next to him, just like she used to back in the rec room at Eichen. Jackson opted for the floor by her feet rather than one of the chairs.

Once everyone but Chris and Peter were seated, Lydia asked, “Are we waiting for Mason and Danny?”

Chris looked at Boyd, who answered, “They’re gone—I drove them to the airport myself. Danny texted me that the charter touched down about ten minutes ago.”

“What’s going on?” Isaac asked.

“We have a security situation. Two separate issues have come up,” Chris said, which elicited a snort from Peter. “The first concerns the Alpha pack: Ennis Marks accosted Stiles at the Jungle last night and Deucalion made specific threats against his life.”

“Holy shit,” Isaac whistled.

“Did he find out about Marco?” Erica asked.

“No, we haven’t told anyone,” Chris said. “And given what happened last night, it is extremely important that information stay under wraps until we have a resolution.” Everyone nodded. “Deucalion’s issue is with Theo Raeken,” he added.

“I’d probably use the word _pretext_ here,” Peter added. “But either way, he suggested that killing Stiles would be a good way to take care of our quote/unquote _problem Alpha_.”

“Oh my god, that fucker,” Erica snarled, grabbing Stiles’ hand.

“What’s the other threat?” Boyd asked.

“Well as it happens, Theo Raeken broke out of Eichen House last night,” Chris said.

The werewolves all shifted and looked uncomfortable. “Is there a reason to think he’ll come after Peter?” Boyd of course, honing in on what everyone else was too embarrassed to say.

“Peter?” Lydia looked puzzled.

“Stiles reeks of him,” Isaac said.

Jackson snorted. “It’s more than just jizz—his entire scent’s changed.”

“He’s been claimed,” Boyd said coolly. “He’s pack.”

“Wait a minute, that was a pack bite?” Stiles burst out.

“You didn’t know?” Erica said. “Holy shit!”

Chris looked at his mate. “Peter, you told me you wanted to handle this.”

“And this is me handling it,” Peter said with a cold smile. “An omega in my household was threatened, so my wolf took care of it.”

“And you couldn’t have asked me?” Stiles demanded.

“ _No, omega_ ,” Peter said, going full Alpha on him. “And in the future, do not expect me to ask permission when I am not giving you a choice.” Stiles shuddered and bared his neck, quickly followed by a totally unnecessary and annoying bolt of lust.

_Of all the motherfucking…_ But before he could give expression to his chosen expletives, Lydia elbowed him hard. “Later,” she hissed.

His face burned, but he did recollect that he probably didn’t want to have this out in front of his entire team. “Fine, go ahead.” And though he was definitely _not_ going to be having sex with Peter fucking Hale later, he did force himself not to apologize.

“Stiles, I promise we will talk about this,” Chris said, “but right now, there are things that have to be decided. To go back to Boyd’s earlier question, the answer is yes. Raeken found out and has threatened to kill Peter.”

“You told him?” Isaac sneered at Stiles. “Way to go.”

“The _how_ is not important,” Chris said. “I promise you it was _not_ Stiles’ fault. Needless to say this situation is developing, but as far as the _team_ goes, Peter believes and I agree that Deucalion is the main threat, and that’s leaving aside how the Alpha pack will respond if or when we go public about Marco Gutierrez’ murder. As our only all-human team, Danny and Mason are the most vulnerable so I have accepted the Florida contract. Boyd arranged a charter for them to Tallahassee.”

“Will they be safe there?” Lydia asked.

“I’ve sent my nephew with them,” Peter answered.

There was a ripple of surprise at that. “Derek?” Erica burst out.

“This goes beyond the team,” Chris said.

“Deucalion publically threatened an omega living under Hale protection,” Peter added. “That is not something we can ignore.”  

“Wow,” Erica said.

“Given the seriousness, Peter has a proposal,” Chris said. “He wants you to consider forming a pack.”

You could hear the proverbial pin drop. Erica and Isaac looked completely floored and Jackson had a death grip on Lydia’s hand. Even Boyd looked pensive. Finally Boyd said, “You’re suggesting we join the Hale pack?”

“Actually it would be my pack,” Peter said.

“Your pack?” Erica said. “Wait, you’re leaving the Hale pack?”

“Talia has agreed to let me form a satellite. There would be a formal treaty of mutual support, and I would retain some connection to the Hale pack, enough to draw on their healing and strength in an emergency, but your pack bonds would be to me.”

There was another long pause and then Lydia said, “Sorry, but wouldn’t it just be better for them to join the Hale pack?”

“For some things, yes,” Peter said. “Jobs, prestige, if you want to run for public office. But for protection, no. Talia is too distant and has too many claims to be able to monitor specific wolves beyond immediate family.”

“You already function as Alpha for them, right?” Lydia continued. “How would this be different?”

“Someone’s been talking out of school,” Isaac huffed.

“She’s my mate, asshole,” Jackson snarled.

“What I provide right now is purely through their relationship to Chris—in essence, my Alpha power lets Chris serve as anchor, mostly to reinforce their control during the full moon. What I’m proposing would be a direct, full pack bond; I would be your Alpha, not Chris, with all the power that entails, meaning you would not be able to disobey me if I gave you an order. I would know if any of you were in trouble, and you could draw directly on the pack for healing or power.”

“And it would increase your power as well?” Lydia had clearly appointed herself the negotiator for the wolves, who all seemed shellshocked by Peter’s offer.

“Definitely,” Peter said.

“More than what you get from your current pack?”

“Pack bonds overwhelmingly benefit the pack Alpha—in the case of the Hales that’s my sister. Your bonds would benefit me, no question, but there are very real benefits for you as well. We don’t like to admit it, but pack is the main reason born wolves are so much stronger than bitten wolves. I have no doubt that with a real Alpha, all of you would achieve full shift, and be able to match any born wolf beta in a challenge.”

“I know this is a lot to think about,” Chris said. “I wish I could give you time, but we really don’t have it. We’ll need a decision today.”

“And at least three of you have to agree,” Peter added. “I won’t get the full benefit unless I have three betas—in that case, I’d be better off staying a full member of the Hale pack.”

“I’m sure you have questions,” Chris said.

“I have one,” Boyd said. “You said you made Stiles pack, but he’s still Raeken’s mate. Won’t that make Raeken pack too? He’ll be able to draw on us.”

“Holy shit,” Erica said. Stiles nearly choked: he’d not even thought of that.

Peter just chuckled, but it was Chris who answered, “We realize that’s an issue, and there are definitely some disadvantages, especially since Deucalion’s pretext for threatening us is the connection to Theo Raeken. On the other hand, thanks to the mating bond, anything that protects Raeken also protects Stiles.”

“Could Theo seize control of the pack?” Lydia asked.

“No chance,” Peter answered.

It didn’t look like Chris and Peter were going to tell them the real reason to fear Theo. Though it made Stiles want to puke to bring it up, he couldn’t let them walk into this blind: “You need to know though: he can get to you through Astral. The betas are all bitten and Lydia is a human.”

“What are you talking about?” Erica demanded.

“Theo can kill while in Astral.” Of course Lydia had figured it out. “That’s how he killed Jennifer Blake and Valack.”

“What? You never told me that!” Jackson turned on her.

“Do not even start!” she snapped. “The powers behind Eichen kill for far less valuable information than the existence of a psychic who can target any person, anywhere in the fucking world, through the Astral plane. I wish I didn’t know it myself. But you should understand what you are getting into with him. How dangerous is Theo, Stiles? Best guess.”

“He doesn’t… I don’t think he’ll go after anyone but Peter—and maybe Chris, not unless you give him a reason,” he said.

“Do not give him one,” Chris said firmly. “He cannot target either me or Peter from Astral, and we both can handle him in the physical. But he’s an Alpha werewolf, and definitely a match for any of you, and you cannot kill him without killing Stiles.”

“Which will not happen.” Peter flashed his eyes.

“No shit,” Jackson muttered.

“Lydia, you know him,” Chris said. “Anything you want to add here?”

“He’s a sadistic psycho,” she said bluntly. “But he’s not stupid or impulsive. He won’t attack unless it benefits him. For example, he knew damn well how much I hated him and he amused himself by scaring the shit out of me whenever the mood hit him, but he never actually hurt me. Just…he probably has more reason to come after me than the rest of you because of our history, but I’m not really worried about Theo, not as things stand now.”

“I agree with all of that,” Stiles added. “And look, I’m not a werewolf, so I can’t really know how pack bonds will work, like if you could sense him or something, which I get would probably suck. But the truth is you’re all on his radar now—you have been since you met me--and that won’t change. But since there really isn’t anything you can do to prepare or protect yourselves, it’s also not worth your time to worry about him.”

“There’s even a chance that the pack bond might offer some protection,” Lydia astonished him by saying. “Assuming he fails to kill Peter, targeting any of the betas would weaken Theo too, right?”

Chris looked at Peter who said, “Theoretically, yes.”

“And if he’s pack—that would make it hard for him to attack us, right?” Erica said. “Wolves almost never attack members of their own pack.”

“Uh, I definitely wouldn’t count on that,” Stiles said.

“Can you feel the pack bond with him now—through Stiles?” Boyd asked Peter.

“To be honest, I don’t particularly want to go looking for it. Talia couldn’t sense Stiles let alone Raeken, but she’s in Washington D.C. Distance definitely matters for pack bonds.”

“But given that he escaped from the supermax unit last night,” Chris added, “It’s quite possible he drew on the bond.”

That was almost definitely true, Stiles realized, as his annoying brain chose this moment to remind him that Theo had complained that they were dosing him with wolfsbane.  

“Stiles, you felt nothing?” Lydia asked.

He shook his head. Not likely given that he’d had no idea Peter had made him pack. “Look, guys, I know it’s not my place to try to persuade you of anything, but for what it’s worth, I agree with Peter that Deucalion is a much more serious threat, and if being pack will help protect you, then I think that should be a real consideration, because he is scary as fuck. And I have a much easier time imagining Deucalion targeting members of PsyCrime as part of an overall attack on the Hale pack, than I can see Theo bothering to attack one of you because he’s pissed at Peter.”

“I agree,” Peter said. “Duke’s actions last night at the very least indicate a willingness to escalate matters with the Hale pack, and I see no chance of PsyCrime staying out of that, short of all of you quitting and moving out of state.”

“Well that’s not happening.” Isaac for once seemed to speak for everyone.

“You guys should talk,” Chris started.

“I don’t need to,” Erica cut him off. “I’m in.”

“Me too,” Boyd said.

“Do you and Lydia want to discuss this privately?” Chris said to Jackson. “She’d technically be pack as well.”

“You should do it,” she said firmly. Jackson looked like he might choke with relief.

“Isaac?” Boyd said.

“Well duh—it’s not like we could turn down a chance to be pack.” Isaac was a dick, but for once Stiles saw his point: he got the distinct impression that this was not an opportunity any of them could afford to turn down.

“If you have real doubts about me as an Alpha, I will talk to Talia, see if she’d consider you for the Hale pack,” Peter offered.

Isaac rolled his eyes. “What good would that do? It wouldn’t help me protect Chris, or the team.”

Chris put his hand on Isaac’s shoulder. “I am pushing for this because it will help all of you stay safe. I know that Stiles’ joining the team seems like it has precipitated all of this, but Peter and I have been talking about it for a long time as the fastest and most effective way to respond if the team ever came under threat.”

“Well I don’t know about you, but all that drama has left me with an appetite. Fortunately Stiles and I made chili,” Peter said with a decided leer. Fucking asshole made it sound like they’d been boning in between cutting up vegetables. “Why don’t you all fix yourselves a bowl and the wolves and I can retire to the garden.”


	18. Chapter 18

Before Stiles could accost Chris and give vent to some of his outrage, the Alpha’s phone rang. He looked apologetic but immediately answered and then walked out, totally intent on whatever he was hearing. Stiles slumped down into the sofa, seething.

“Enough,” Lydia said coming in with a bowl of chili.

“Enough?” he scoffed.

“Stop sulking.”

“Fuck you, Lydia. You realize that I have now fucked two Alphas, and both have bitten me without permission.”

“Do not compare Peter to Theo…”

“Why the fuck not! From where I sit, they did exactly the same thing.” Lydia gave him one of her slaps. “Ouch! That hurts!”

“Back right up: Theo gave you a mating bite, something you would never have said yes to in a million years, something that means that if he dies you die as well. Peter gave you a pack bite, which if he had offered you this afternoon along with the rest of us, you’d have agreed to in a heartbeat.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh, you were going to throw his offer of protection in his face, even though you’re the reason they’re all in danger?”

He blanched but forced himself to respond, “Fine, you’re right, but Peter and I spent three hours together making that chili and not only did he not apologize, he didn’t bother to mention it.”

Lydia thought for a second and said, “Okay that’s annoying, but I think it probably helped you.”

“Helped me?”

“Think about it, Stiles. You’re living here, sleeping with Peter and Chris….”

“I’m not sleeping with Chris,” he muttered.

“Sorry, blowing him in the PsyCrime van. The point is you’ve been here one week, and suddenly we’re being menaced by a pack of bloodthirsty, anti-bitten fanatics, not to mention your mate. You are a shit magnet. That kind of thing causes resentment.”

“God, fuck, I’m sorry….”

“I don’t want sorry, I want you to pull it the fuck together.”

“Lydia, I’m trying, but I am feeling pretty fucking cursed right now. Look at my life: I see a ghost one day at school, and literally the next day I’m locked up in a mental hospital straight out of a fucking horror movie. For three years. You were there, Lyds. Was I really so different from everyone else—like worse? We were all assholes and fuck-ups, and so far as I could tell, nothing we did made any difference. I had sex with like 15 different people there, and one of them was Theo, and now I’m mated for life to a mass murderer, and the minute I start rebuilding my life, everyone I care about is suddenly being threatened, and has to totally rearrange their life so they’re not killed.”

“Are you done?” she said pitilessly.

“You’re the one who said it: you’re all in danger because of me.”

“By that logic, it’s really Chris’ fault, since he hired you knowing full well you were mated to a psychopath with a target the size of the Bay Bridge on his back.”

“Chris…”

“And by another logic,” she said more gently, “this is the best thing that could have happened to them. Because of you, they finally get to be pack. But the flip side is that we depend on them to keep us safe.”

“Is it that bad?”

“No, but I’m telling you that is because of the way Peter handled it. I was watching the wolves, and they were relieved when he shut you down. It showed them that he’ll treat you the same as the rest of them, he won’t tiptoe because you’re human—or an omega. It’s not like any of them can disobey him if he gives an order, so don’t expect sympathy if you complain about that.”

He nodded grudgingly. “Fine, you’re right. Sorry.”

“There’s something else you need to understand. This move of Peter’s, creating his own pack, is a very big deal.”  

“I got that—I know it will make a huge difference to the wolves, and to you.”

“Yes, it will, but this is also a very serious step for the Hale pack. Peter’s considered one of the deadliest wolves in America. I’m honestly shocked Talia Hale agreed to it. Fear of Peter is a major deterrent against attacks and challenges, and this mutual protection treaty or whatever is not the same as his being a full member of the Hale pack.”

“Why—why would he?”

“My guess: he thinks it’s the best way to protect Chris—that’s why he does everything.”

_Why he does everything_. Fuck. Stiles couldn’t help himself; he jumped to his feet and ignoring Lydia’s protest, jog-walked through the front door and around to the garden. From what he could tell, Peter hadn’t wasted any time giving them the pack bites: everyone was wolfed out and arranged for what looked like a training exercise.

Before Stiles could open his mouth, Peter snapped in the Alpha tone, _“Silence omega.”_ Stiles shuddered but had no choice except to obey. To the wolves, Peter said, “For the next 48 hours, our only priority is building up the pack bonds. It’s crucial that all of you constantly have a clear sense of where your packmates are and what their condition is. To start with, circle the block, spread out, and try to get a sense of how each bond feels, who is who, and then move on to developing a sense of _where_ they are.”

He grabbed Stiles by the upper arm and pulled him over to his apartment, which apparently wasn’t locked.

“You have two minutes,” Peter said.

“Was I some gift for Chris?”

“What on earth?”

“ _You’d never do anything to hurt Chris_ —those were your words. Biting me—was that some gift? I am trying not to lose it here, Peter, but you are not the first Alpha to bite me without permission. I’m not holding my breath for an apology, but I want a fucking explanation. Something was going on last night, something to do with Chris. Is that why you bit me?”

“Lord save me from melodramatic teenagers. First of all, princess, I didn’t bite you, my wolf did, and though we like to pretend that the human is always in charge, I assure you that is not the case. Now as to _its_ motives: as far as the wolf is concerned, we are long overdo in adding an omega to the pack. Last night it became clear that not only are you a compatible omega but you’ve effectively already bonded with Chris, which my wolf was quite pleased by, except then you go and get threatened by Deucalion, which displeased it, _severely_. It was not a tolerable situation for the wolf, so he rectified it.”

“You say I bonded to Chris… how does he feel about it?”

“I’d have thought it was obvious. He feels a bond as well, but he wasn’t going to let things progress with you unless I was on board, another reason my wolf decided to act.”

“That’s why he wouldn’t have sex with me?”

“I do recall explaining last night that Chris is complicated--but you can’t seriously doubt that he wants to fuck you?” Peter raised his eyebrows.

“Fine, I wouldn’t mind if he’d get on with it.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t but you’re going to have to wait until he’s ready, which will probably be when he’s not exhausted and not dealing with one crisis after another. Now if you’re finished, I really….”

“Wait, Peter, at least let me talk to Theo—sleep here tonight by myself….”

“Absolutely not, and if you go behind my back on this, I really will put you over my knee in front of the entire pack.”

“Fuck you! You have no right. Just because I’m an omega, you don’t get to dictate to me. He’s my mate, I can talk to him. You have to let me try.”

“First off, I do have the right, not because you’re an omega, because this is a pack and I am Alpha. And right now, princess, _you_ are the only one resisting me, and it’s because you’ve not committed to being in this pack. And Stiles, that is not going to cut it. Without a full, healthy pack bond, the wolves won’t be able to find you or know if you’re in trouble, which is the whole point of this. And believe it or not, I also need you fully in this pack so I can handle that little fucker, Raeken.”

“Peter, I just this moment offered to talk to Theo.”

Peter pinched his brows. “This, this right here is the problem, and it’s not just you. All of you, wolves and humans, have effectively been living under human rules, forcing the wolves to suppress most of their instincts. But for them to really be able to function, to work together to protect this pack, they need those instincts; they need a wolf pack, with me as Alpha. And for better or worse, that pack now includes your mate. That little brat threatened to kill me and then had the nerve to draw on _my_ power and Talia’s in order to break out of Eichen. I can’t exclude him from this pack, and I can’t overlook that, so my only possible response is that he does not get to speak to you or fuck you, in Astral or in the physical, until he presents himself and submits to me as Alpha. You might not understand it, princess, but believe me, he will.”

He was still annoyed at Peter, but he couldn’t escape the crushing sense that he was going to ruin everything for these people, who’d given him a second chance at life, who’d saved him from misery and torture. Lydia was right; he really was a shit magnet. “I won’t do it, I promise. I should go, I know you’re busy,” he murmured, forcing himself not to apologize.

“Don’t think I don’t recognize that scent, omega. Come here.” Stiles, obeyed and Peter put his arms around him and nuzzled his hair, scenting him. “This isn’t going to cut it either, pet. It’s pure egomania to think you are responsible for every bad thing that happens in Beacon Hills.”

“People feel guilty, Peter,” he muttered into the werewolf’s chest. “It’s usually a sign that they’re not sociopaths.”

“By all means don’t be a sociopath, but in my experience, most of the time it’s exactly the wrong people who feel guilty. Chris has spent years wracked with guilt over his father’s sins, and I can’t see any sign that Gerard Argent loses a moment’s sleep over them. Right now he’s torturing himself because there was an incident at the airport in Florida—someone tried to waylay your colleagues.”

“Is everyone okay?”

“Of course. Derek handled it, but Chris doesn’t handle threats to his team particularly well, especially when he’s exhausted.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You need to let me take care of Chris, sweetheart. Just stop resisting joining the pack. Having you fully commit will make more difference than you can possibly imagine.”

“That sounds very Obi Won, Peter. _Strike me down, and I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine._ ”

“It does, doesn’t it—it’s not a bad analogy actually.”

“You’re serious?”

Peter paused and then said, “Actually, I’m beginning to think that the reason the wolf took this step is not Duke’s nonsense, but because we finally have an omega. It’s not something we advertise to humans, but omegas are crucial to a properly functioning pack. They keep the Alphas grounded, which stabilizes their connection to the rest of the pack. It enables everyone to function at their highest level. So I need you, and Chris needs you and even your noxious mate does. _We all need you_. So you will play this role for us, Stiles, because frankly I won’t accept anything less from you.”

“Okay. I promise. Anything else I can do—you know, other than being everyone’s Mary Sue omega princess, sitting in my fucking tower?”

Peter gave him a rough kiss. “Yes, sweetheart. You can find whatever it was that was bugging you about your toxic mate. The messenger dropped those files off about ten minutes ago.”

“Yeah, sure. Can Lydia help me?”

“I can think of no one better qualified.”


	19. Chapter 19

So five minutes later, he and Lydia were back on the sofa, staring at four banker’s boxes stuffed to the brim with files supposedly containing what the Werewolf Council had on Theo.

“Jesus,” Stiles groaned.

“It’s all police files so far as I can tell,” Lydia said, thumbing through one of the boxes. “And they don’t appear to be in any order.”

“Who the fuck put this together?” Stiles asked. He pulled out a thick stack from one of the boxes and started leafing through. Not just the dates, but the crimes themselves were all over the place: a jewelry store that was robbed, an armored car, a private poker game; acts of vandalism, muggings. None of the files included so much as a note on why they even thought Theo was involved.

Lydia started in on her own stack. “What are we looking for?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Something…. Just a hunch… I can’t put my finger on it. Sorry….”

“Don’t be. After seeing you in action yesterday, I am definitely willing to give a few hours of my time to your hunches.”

“Did you know about Theo’s extracurriculars?”

“Yeah. Chris told me about it after you were bitten—and then asked if I thought you knew. I told him it was highly unlikely, which I’m assuming was the correct response. He asked me not to say anything—he wanted you to have a chance to prove yourself.”

“Thanks for that,” he murmured. “Damn it, I seriously think someone pulled every unsolved case that might involve a werewolf and shoved it in a box and labeled it ‘Theo Raeken.’”

“You don’t think they’re trying to frame him, do you?”

“I wish.” Both Peter and Chris thought his mate was involved in crime, and it wasn’t like Stiles had a single reason to think Theo wouldn’t be. “But the person from the Council behind this is either lazy or incompetent.”

“Or too stupid to realize that the police were dumping him with their unsolved case files,” Lydia said.

Though part of him wanted to just give up, he reminded himself that he really had nothing else to do except watch TV and feel guilty that the wolves were out there working their butts off to form a pack so they could protect him. More importantly, he couldn’t get away from the feeling that there were answers in here. Lydia and Peter were right—he needed to lose the guilt, tell his self-loathing to take a powder, and just do this.  

After a few minutes, he got fed up with the random accounts of crimes. “I can’t get anything from this. We need some way to organize these.”

“Well, we could start with just putting them in order chronologically.”

Stiles thought about the different ways they could sort them—by crime, by location, but Lydia was right, they had to start with chronologically. “There are at least four year’s worth of crap here. Let’s focus on the twelve months before Theo went into Eichen. Do you have a laptop?”

“In my bag.”

“Pull up the calendar function.”

Lydia actually seemed to find it helpful to log the various crimes into her calendar function, but Stiles quickly decided that wasn’t working for him. It’s why he liked the crime boards. He needed to be able to see stuff—move files around, move himself around. He started laying out files on the long dining-room table that so far as he knew, Peter and Chris never used, but which functioned as a sort of divider between the living room area and the kitchen. Lydia found him a supply of post-its so he started with June the year before Theo went into Eichen and marked off the different months.

Once they had the principles, the sorting went relatively quickly—measured in hours--though he was forced to draft a coffee table and then the dining room chairs when the table ran out of space.

“Fuck, there have to be a hundred and fifty cases just on this table. These are too random. Even if he was an evil mastermind with an army of minions, these just don’t make sense. I mean, look at December 27th. We got a warehouse robbery, a couple walking home from a bar getting mugged, a smash-and-grab at a gas station, and vandalism at a high school. They expect me to believe one gang is responsible for all of those?”

“Okay, so we need to narrow them. Figure out which ones might be him.”

He thought for a moment. “Peter said he was suspected of extortion, robbery, murder for hire and dealing Bane.”

“What do _you_ think?” Lydia said.

“Well, of all of these, I’d go with extortion. That definitely sounds like Theo—that and murder, obviously. Too bad I’ve not seen a single file that mentions extortion.”

“These are unsolved crimes, ones they knew took place because they were reported. But the point of extortion is that people are too afraid to go to the police, right?” Lydia said.

“That’s right, you’re right. And I think we can assume that shaking down shopkeepers or whoever would be Theo in person, since I can’t imagine anyone else eliciting the proper level of raw terror. So what about these other crimes? Some of these might very well be by his gang.”

“Well, same question: what sounds like Theo _to you_. You know him best, Stiles.”

“Right. So theft, sure, why not. It’s the easiest way to get money, right? Murder—big yes, we already know he has no problem. I think the one that’s bugging me is drugs. It’s not like he’d have some moral objection, but you sort of said it before, he’s not impulsive. He’d do things that benefit him, things with a favorable balance of risk and reward. Selling drugs seems like it would really depend—how are they produced, transported, distributed? You need to buy them from someone, and then you need customers, lots of them buying regularly. Cops are all over it—dealers get arrested all the time, and then there are the fights with other gangs—how many turf war murders did we look at this week? It just seems awfully messy and involved, like that really would have to be his main job as a crime lord, not some side gig. How big is this gang supposed to be, anyway? And not one of them has been arrested that anyone knows about?—I just don’t see how that fits with being drug dealers.”

“No arguments here. Stick with your gut, Stiles. You can do this.” She picked up two piles of post-its, one bright pink and the other neon green. “Start with the days that have multiple crimes, and put the pink on any that sound like him and the green on those that just don’t and leave blank any where you’ve no sense either way.”

Part of Stiles wanted to pipe up that even if he knew Theo, he had no idea what his evil minions might do, but he forced it down. He needed to start somewhere and Lydia’s suggestion was solid. So he started with the 27th. Robbing a warehouse at night?—sounded like easy pickings, definitely pink; vandalizing a high school? no money in that, green; gas station? no idea, blank; mugging some drunk couple? the risk/reward looked lousy, green. After he’d done three of the dates with multiple crimes, he got the feel. “Tag pink anything with a jewelry store, warehouse, or where significant cash was stolen. Anything that looks like a mugging or involves vandalism tag green.”

He decided that vandalism and mugging were both common crimes with a low clearance rate, which would explain why there were so many of them in the pile. He felt a vague irritation that he was doing someone’s job for them, but he realized that the Werewolf Council probably didn’t give a shit what Theo had actually done compared to loading him up with as many crimes as they could.  

Something occurred to him. “Let’s add full moons to our dates, see if there are any patterns.” So Lydia dug up yet another batch of post-its, these yellow, drew a big circle on twelve of them, and checking her phone, started placing them next to certain piles.

By now they’d been at it for more than four hours. It was fully night, and his head was starting to spin. Chris had come in a few times, mostly on the phone, to grab an energy drink or some papers he’d left downstairs; he’d smiled encouragingly at their work, but Stiles could practically taste how exhausted the Alpha was even with his nap earlier. Stiles wished he could do something for him, but it was obvious he was being besieged by phone calls about Danny and Mason, and Stiles would just distract him.

They’d heard nothing from the wolves, so he nearly squawked when the front door open and Erica and Isaac tromped in, both stripped down to T-shirts and sweating despite the cold.

“Dude, is there any more chili?” Erica asked. “I am starving.”

Fuck. Stiles felt a sympathetic wave of dizziness. Lydia caught it of course. “When did you last eat?”

“Uh, breakfast, I guess,” he said. “I should…”

“I got it, partner.” Erica winked at him and headed towards the stove. He felt an overpowering rush of relief that she showed no signs of hating him.

“What are the green tags?” Isaac asked. He was staring at the table, standing a normal distance from Stiles, which for Isaac might as well be sitting in his lap.

“Uh, those were mostly vandalism, mugging.”

Isaac nodded. “The muggings were bitten wolves trying to score money for Bane. See how they’re clumped each month—right at the full moon. The vandalism too—that’s wolves who don’t have a territory to run in blowing off steam. I bet if you plotted them on a map, they’d mostly be on the outskirts of the city, as close to parks and pack territories as they can get without crossing over.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“Dude, what are you guys doing?” Erica handed him a bowl of chili with all of his favorite toppings on it—she’d paid attention to his Chipotle orders this week, since she was seriously the most awesome partner ever.

“These are all crimes the Council thinks Theo might be involved in. We’re just looking for patterns.”

“Well the vandalism and the mugging aren’t him,” Isaac scoffed.

“That’s what I thought--I mean there’s no money in vandalism—but why do you say that?” Stiles asked.

“He’s an Alpha—he’d anchor his pack. There’d be no reason.”

Stiles couldn’t help marveling at how nice—and helpful—Isaac was being, which led him to ask, “Isaac, do you know anything about Bane?”

He could have kicked himself immediately after, as Isaac’s whole demeanor turned hostile. Stiles should have known better: there were plenty of signs that of all the betas, Isaac had had the worst time and it wouldn’t surprise Stiles for a second if that involved using Bane. He rushed to add, “It’s just that they’re claiming that Theo’s pack is dealing. I’m not trying to get him off or anything—it’s not like he’d have some moral objection—but of everything they’ve accused him of, that one doesn’t feel quite right. I just want to know what would be involved. Like is it the kind of thing people make in their kitchen?”

Isaac looked thoughtful. “It’s not as dangerous as producing meth—like it won’t explode—but for a werewolf it would be pretty hard. Basically to make Bane, you cut an opiate—China white, heroin, Oxy—with tiny amounts of purple wolfsbane.”

“Aconit Napel Bleu Nordique or Nordic Blue Monkshood. It’s incredibly toxic to werewolves,” Lydia mused. “It would weaken you just enough for a fast-acting opiate to take affect.”

“No shit,” Isaac said. “A human could probably do it with a regular mask and some gloves—for them the risk is the opioid—but a werewolf would need a full-on hazmat suit with a respirator, and then the entire locale would be poisonous, uninhabitable, like forever.”

“Okay, fuck it. I’m just going to cross that off. He’s not making it. I know it’s a guess, but that’s my gut.”

“What about dealing?” Lydia said. “How does someone buy Bane?”

Isaac was getting that hard look again, but Stiles forced himself not to apologize. Luckily Erica stepped in. “They are literally called ‘shops,’ so if anyone hears you talking about them, it doesn’t matter. They start popping up a few days before the full moon, sometimes it’s a van, or an empty store, or a house. They move around constantly but they’re easy to scent. You go, you score, you leave. It’s not a social drug.”

“What about the dealers? Are they wolves?” Stiles asked.

“The wolves who deal are junkies,” Isaac said coldly. “They don’t last.”

“So they wouldn’t be part of a pack?” Stiles asked.

“No fucking way,” Isaac said.

“I mean you never know,” Erica put in, “but why would you take Bane if you’ve got a pack, and why would an Alpha accept a wolf who’s on Bane?”

“Wow, okay, this has been really helpful,” Stiles said.

“You don’t think he’s dealing,” Lydia said.

“I get why they’d accuse him—they’d accuse him of murdering kittens if a bunch showed up dead--but I think the police or the Council would have something more to go on than _people who sell Bane are evil, Theo is evil, ergo_ ….”

Peter, Boyd and Jackson came in then. Jackson went right to Lydia and practically threw himself on her. Peter raised an eyebrow at the deluge of papers that had taken over his designer living room but had the good sense not to complain. “Five minutes,” he told the wolves. “And do not forget to eat. Shifting burns calories like nothing else.”

“Holy shit, you guys shifted?” Stiles said.

“Boyd and Jackson,” Erica said, looking more impressed than envious.

“Wow, cool, congratulations.” Stiles wasn’t sure what you said for something like that but he felt like he should be making an effort here. He was uncomfortably aware that of the wolves, Erica was the only one who didn’t hate his guts.

Boyd, however, was focused on his make-shift crime board on the dining-room table. Isaac explained the piles and what they’d decided. “Can you give me some of the green tags?” he called to Stiles. “The pink are the ones where you suspect him, right?”

“Yeah… uh… sure, which ones are you marking?”

“Gas stations,” Isaac said absently. “Any on the full moon—only place you can score cash at night.”

Chris came downstairs. “I thought I heard you.” He kissed Peter lightly on the mouth. To Stiles he asked, “Any luck with the files?”

Peter shot Stiles a warning glare. “When did you last eat, darling?” Chris looked a little guilty. “Sit down. No one will die if you take five minutes.” Peter fixed Chris a bowl of chili and put out the brownies, and then made a subtle nod at Stiles. Message received. He got himself a brownie and sat at the kitchen table while Chris ate, and gave his boss a quick overview of the work he and Lydia had done.

“Right now, Isaac and Boyd are looking it over, seeing if there are any more we can exclude.”

The brownies of course drew in the rest of the team, who made quick work of the three trays.

“Post-its are decent for a quick visual reminder, but they fall off all the time, which can wreak havoc with your system,” Boyd said out of the blue.

“I’ve been entering everything into my calendar on my laptop, color-coded,” Lydia said. Wow—he’d not realized she’d color-coded it. How did she have the patience?

“Wow, thanks for the advice,” Stiles said. “I really liked the crime boards at HQ and I guess once we have it narrowed down, I’d like to do something similar with these. The laptop won’t work for me. I have to see everything laid out, be able to move it.”

“It’s about how you retrieve information,” Boyd said. “Each individual is different. For people like you, it’s visual and kinetic. It’s important to come up with a system that makes sense to you.” He sounded like he’d thought a fair amount about it.

“Could we use the walls—like tape stuff up?” Stiles asked.

“Scuff my walls and you will regret being born,” Peter answered. “That’s a custom paint job. The table is bad enough. And now with five extra mouths at meals, we will need it back.”

“I could order some standing boards,” Chris said, sounding like it would be item four hundred on his to-do list.

“I got it, boss. I know a guy,” Boyd said. “What’s up with Danny and Mason?”

Chris sighed. “Florida neglected to mention that there was a cartel behind the problems they’ve had with their lottery. Thank god, Mason sensed there was something off about the driver sent to pick them up at the airport. Derek got them out of there and I called in some favors from the FBI office in Miami, got them to a safe house.” He made his wry smile. “The one problem I’d thought I had handled ended up taking up the entire day.”

“How are Danny and Mason taking all of this?” Lydia asked.

“For them it’s a huge adventure—to quote Danny, ‘finally something other than statistical analysis’,” Chris said, shaking his head.

“Statistical analysis, riiiight,” Erica said. “Dude just got rescued by Derek Hale. Danny’s spank-bank is, like, topped off for the next decade.”

“Jesus, TMI,” Jackson snapped.

“Your nephew’s got it going on?” Stiles said to Peter.

“So I’ve been told,” Peter said dryly.

“Are you kidding me?” Erica shouted.

Stiles looked at Lydia in question, who huffed, “He’s ridiculously gorgeous,” leading to another protest from Jackson—and given that Jackson was pretty damn fine himself, Derek Hale must be something indeed.

“Sounds like I need to check this dude out,” Stiles said with his best leer.

“I’ll make sure to introduce you,” Peter said, totally unfazed.

It was all light and friendly: Jackson scowled but Isaac was smirking and Boyd actually _chuckled_. It looked like the “pack-building” exercises might actually be helping to thaw out the tension between Peter and Chris’ “nightmare brats.”

Chris laughed along with everyone, but Stiles guessed that the situation in Florida had been nothing like an adventure for him. Peter had said it earlier: Chris didn’t handle threats to his team well. And now despite the brownies and laughter, Stiles was getting a very _eve of the battle of Helms’ Deep_ vibe, like they would all be going off to war come Monday. Chris would have battled their enemies single-handed if he could, and he must feel like all of them were hurtling towards danger while he was forced to stand by and watch.  

Peter sent the wolves off for more running around the neighborhood, and then gave Stiles another pointed look. Stiles felt like he was getting the hang of this. “Uh, I don’t want to be a pain, but I’m pretty beat. I don’t know how much longer I can go before I might nod off. I promised Peter I wouldn’t contact Theo.”

“Of course,” Chris said.

“Look, why don’t I sleep on the floor.” Stiles blushed. “Let you and Peter take the bed.”

“You’re not sleeping on the floor, princess,” Peter answered. “And anyway, I want the wolves together for the next few nights. It will reinforce the bonds, and also help us figure out the most effective schedule for keeping guard. It would be easiest if we used the garden apartment.”

“If that’s okay with you,” Chris said to Stiles.

“Of course—whatever you need. What about Lydia?”

“Humans together,” Peter said firmly. “We’re a pack, we need to act like one.”

“It’s a big bed,” Stiles said with a look at Lydia. She shrugged her assent.

Stiles offered to help with the dishes but Peter shooed him off. “Bed, all three of you. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Lydia ducked into the master bath for a quick shower, while Chris got back on his phone. Stiles swallowed his disappointment that he and Chris were losing any chance to talk. He’d barely had a moment alone with him since this morning. There were too many people around, and too many things kept happening. But Stiles couldn’t help worrying that maybe Chris was avoiding him. It felt like Peter—or his wolf—had bulldozed both of them, and now everything about Chris’ life was upended. And though Chris was way too nice to blame him, that didn’t change that it was completely Stiles’ fault.

Stiles told himself that Chris just needed time to absorb all these changes, something that couldn’t happen while two members of his team were fighting off cartel kidnappers on the other side of the continent. He wished Chris would at least sleep in the bed with them. For once it had nothing to do with sex. The way Peter said it just sounded…nice, comforting: the pack’s three humans all snuggled together, while the wolves kept them safe. But he had the distinct feeling that Chris would again sleep in the chair.

Lydia came back in, damp and warm from her shower. She glanced at Chris who covered the phone to say, “Let me know if this bothers you.”

“You mind taking the middle?” Stiles whispered, on the slim hope that maybe Chris would be more willing to take the bed if he didn’t have to sleep next to Stiles.

Lydia gave him her favorite “bitch please” look, but finally rolled her eyes and got in bed. She made no objection when Stiles snuggled under the covers and spooned behind her. It was something they’d never been able to do all the times they’d had comfort sex at Eichen, but it felt amazing.

“Missed you,” he whispered in her ear.

“I missed you too.”

“Love you.”

“Me too. Get some sleep, Stiles.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay on getting chapter 21 up. I’m traveling right now and I had some changes I need to make so it may be Monday or Tuesday. Again apologies for the delay and a million thanks to the people following and leaving comments.

Chris slept in the chair again. Stiles went over a long list of reasons why he shouldn’t be upset, and then repeated the list and added a few items when it didn’t seem to be helping. His chill-level improved marginally when he got downstairs and saw Boyd and Isaac making breakfast in Peter’s kitchen, which was so unexpected it proved a decent distraction.

“Peter’s working with Erica on her shift—Jackson’s helping,” Boyd told him, and then nodded towards the living room. “Those got delivered.” It was three full-sized standing whiteboards, one already sporting a large map of Beacon Hills.

“Wow, thanks, that’s amazing,” he gushed, earning an unimpressed look from Boyd. Fuck, he really couldn’t seem to hit the right note with any of the wolves except Erica.

At least he was able to show Isaac how to use the pretentious “French press” coffee thingy, which seemed to create a minute thaw. Breakfast was just scrambled eggs and bacon, nothing like Peter’s gourmet spread, but it was more than Stiles could make, his newly-acquired skills in peeling carrots notwithstanding, and it tasted surprisingly good.

Learning his lesson, he stomped down the urge to gush, and kept his thanks to a mumbled, “That was great, thanks.” But his hands were shaking and he felt an unaccountable urge to start regurgitating apologies, which was definitely not the way to win points with Boyd or Isaac.

He’d really thought he was making progress with his anxiety, but today no question there was serious backsliding. Fortunately, he was again distracted by a member of the team, this time Lydia, who came into the kitchen, somehow looking like she was heading out to a fashion shoot.

There was no sign of Chris, who was probably in his office again. _Working_ , Stiles reminded himself. This wasn’t about Chris avoiding him. And it wasn’t like Stiles didn’t have work to do himself. He started to bring his plate up to the dishwasher, but Boyd stopped him. “Isaac and I got this. We’ll work out a schedule. Peter wants that table cleared by dinnertime.”

That meant a late dinner, right? Like 10:30 pm?

Fuck. So it was a little daunting staring at the dozens of piles of paper littering virtually every available surface of Chris and Peter’s living room. “Didn’t we work on this for like five hours yesterday?” he groaned. “Why doesn’t it look like more progress?”

“It was six,” Lydia said, as she daintily sipped her coffee.

“You still good working on this?”

“It’s not like I’m going to take a spa day,” she huffed. “But we need a plan for the next step.”

He rubbed his hands through his hair, probably making himself look like a scarecrow. “Right, a plan. Fuck.”

“Stick with your gut, Stiles,” she reminded him. “That’s really all we have right now.”

Just the mention of his gut sent his roiling. “I don’t think that’s helping,” he groaned. But then something did occur to him: All Isaac and Boyd had to do was spend a few minutes looking over the material and they’d been able to exclude more than a dozen cases from their list of possibles. He knew someone else who might be just as helpful. “I wonder if we could get Parrish in here to look at this. I mean, he’s an actual trained cop, right?”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,” Lydia said, modestly leaving out that Parrish would do just about anything legal that she asked of him.

Since he currently only had Erica, Lydia and Chris on his contacts, something he needed to fix ASAP, he ducked back to the kitchen. “Hey Boyd, will you ask Peter if it’s okay if Parrish comes in and looks at this stuff?”

Peter agreed, according to that definition of “agreement” that encompasses threats of grievous bodily harm if the deputy mentioned _anything_ regarding Council business to _anyone_ not on this team. But it was permission enough for Lydia to call Jordan, who arrived less than fifteen minutes later. Stiles couldn’t say he was shocked that Parrish was not a dude with a major weekend social life.

“What are we looking for here?” Jordan asked as he scanned the table. Each time Stiles had to listen to that question he felt his anxiety spike a little more.

Luckily Lydia answered. “Stiles has worked up a profile for Theo.” _He had? Dude--he was a profiler!_ “We spent most of yesterday afternoon trying to get a rough picture of which files might be his pack. The wolves helped us exclude some, and now we’re hoping you might serve as another set of eyes, help us identify any patterns.”

Wow, Lydia made it sound so smart and cop-like. She went over the different colors of post-it, including the little circles for the full moon.

“There have been no arrests tied to his gang?” Jordan asked.

“None that anyone knows of,” Stiles said.

“Well that right there is pretty telling.”

“Go on,” Lydia said.

“Well, it means he picks safe jobs.”

“Safe jobs?” Stiles asked.

“Ones he’s researched carefully, where he has a high level of control over the variables; it also suggests that his crew is pretty reliable. They don’t make mistakes.”

“Reliable would mean, like, experienced, right?” Stiles said.

“So maybe we look for repeats,” Lydia mused. “Jobs with similar characteristics or techniques, ones where they knew they’d be successful.”

“And I’d take out ones like this.” Jordan pointed to a theft of an expensive watch as someone exited the Beacon Heights Mall. “Crimes like this tend to be targets of opportunity, which means they’re risky: a lot could go wrong, starting with the fact that this is America, and you never know who might have a gun in their purse. Your subject has a lot of discipline, over himself and his crew. He doesn’t take unnecessary risks.”

“So that would mean not too many jobs either.” Stiles could feel his energy rise.  

“That goes back to what you said before,” Lydia added. “He’d want a certain ratio of risk and reward.”

“Alright, could we pick a dollar amount? What would the minimum worthwhile job be if you were Theo?” Stiles said. “I really have no clue—five thousand? Ten? More?”

“Mid-range,” Parrish said. “Go too high and you’re talking much more aggressive security and attention from law enforcement, not to mention crimes that catch the attention of the FBI or Homeland.”

“What about his psychic powers?” Lydia asked. “Could they be used to commit crimes?”

Stiles felt an outright blast of panic—shit, today was starting to feel a little too much like his first day at PsyCrime. _Deep breath_. This was Parrish, another supernatural, a fucking hell hound, whom Chris trusted completely.

Chris, who was probably avoiding him.

Definitely avoiding him.

Which was _not_ relevant right now.

They were focusing on Theo’s psychic powers. “They might work for the extortion—like subliminally maybe,” he said, leaving out any mention of murder since he wasn’t sure Theo had killed anyone in Astral before that night.

“Psychic crimes are a whole other kettle of fish,” Parrish said. _Who put fish in a kettle?_ Jordan really was a geek. “I’ll assume he wasn’t being investigated by PsyCrime. But anything serious would bring in the FPMP, and they have major resources, including remote viewers.”

“Well he did end up in Eichen,” Lydia pointed out.

 _Kettle of stinking fish, more like._ Where did he even begin with that? The doubts flooded in again: there was just too much he didn’t know. What the fuck was he thinking? That he, Stiles, could sort through boxes filled with four years’ worth of unsolved crimes and somehow discover some key piece of information?

“Hey!” Lydia pinched him. “What did I tell you about pity parties? We’re making progress here. You don’t get to give up before I do.”  

“Okay, you’re right. Sorry. Look, forget the FPMP and all that shit. We don’t have any access to that information anyway. Let’s just keep the focus on what we’ve been doing. At least until we decide there’s really nothing here that can help us.”

The three of them started looking over the files, and like the werewolves, Parrish quickly proved his value by helping them identify crimes that could reasonably excluded—ones that were too messy, or half-assed, or opportunistic.

“This is weird,” Stiles murmured about a half hour later. “Parrish, what do you make of this? There have been nine significant jewelry heists in Beacon Hills over our time frame. But see, these four were during the day—when the shop was open—and then there were five that took place at night.”

“Jewelry gets locked up at night, so those are usually safe-cracking jobs, which is pretty specialized,” Parrish said. “Wait a minute, I know this one. I’m almost positive the someone in the 9th precinct solved it. There were a bunch of arrests.” He pulled out his laptop and logged into the BHPD website. “Back in June. A professional crew. They were charged with more than twenty jobs in four cities. Pled out.”

“Any supernaturals?”

Jordan scrolled down. “No, all human. No indications of psychics either.”

“What about the four during the day?” Lydia asked.

“Day time obviously has its risks,” Jordan said, “but at least the pieces are out of the safe, usually just locked in a glass display.”

Stiles felt his hands shaking a little as he pulled the files together and started reading the individual reports. Jewelry theft had always been high on his list of crimes that fit Theo’s “profile”; if anything could be said to provide a bang for the buck it was stealing jewelry—portable, presumably simple to sell if you were in the “business” of stealing it, and ounce for ounce made up of the most precious substances in the world. “So these all have the same MO. Four different shops. A customer asks to see a piece, the jeweler or whatever pulls it out, but at some point it just disappears.”

Jordan paged through another of the cases. “The lead on this is a detective from the 3rd, Tara Greame. She did exhaustive checks on the customers and couldn’t find anything. She concluded supernatural involvement.”

“How much was the take?” Lydia asked.

“Wow, more than two hundred thousand,” Stiles said.

“And this one wasn’t solved?” Lydia asked.

Jordan checked the BHPD files. “Hey, wait, it looks like there were another two?”

“Oh yeah, we should have mentioned, we were looking at the 12 months before Theo went into Eichen,” Stiles explained. “But Peter said that the Council believed he continued to run his gang from inside.”

“No it wasn’t solved,” Jordan said. “And it looks like the most recent theft was in September.”

“This.” Stiles felt like he was practically begging as he stared at Lydia. “This one. There’s something here, I can feel it.”

“Okay.” She started reading one of the reports. “So, how did he do it?”

“That’s the million dollar question. How do you steal an expensive piece of jewelry right out from under the nose of two people and not get caught?” Stiles said.

“Telekinesis?” Lydia said.  

“That was my original thought. Maybe if it was a just a ring, but check out the photo of this necklace—it’s like got diamonds and rubies and shit. Don’t you think you’d notice it floating through the air and out the door?” Stiles argued. “And the door itself, it’s got to be at least ten or fifteen feet from the counter, probably more, especially in a jewelry store. At Eichen, Mike was the strongest telekinetic, right?—from fifteen feet, he could _maybe_ lift a pencil.”

“Jordan, any ideas?” Lydia said.

Parrish was reading off his computer. “Detective Greame’s notes say that all of the places had full camera coverage. In each case, there was only the one customer and she didn’t think they were in on it, so let’s assume she’s right. You would need someone monitoring the cameras, maybe for hours, waiting for the salesperson to pull out a valuable piece.”

“Or just hang out inside the store.” Stiles’ head felt like it was exploding. “FUCK! How could I be so stupid!” Shit, he was crying—why was he crying?

“Stiles, what is going on?” Lydia gave him a hard shake.

“Corey Bryant—the chameleon. It was him. Which means the SuperTeen murders—that was Theo’s pack.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay getting this up, especially after all my high hopes about meeting my posting goals. This chapter turned into a bit of a monster and ended up being harder to write than I anticipated. I knew it needed some changes, but unfortunately, by the time it came due, I was visiting my parents, and I just couldn't get the time and mental space to work on it in between arguments about politics and play-by-plays of my dad's super-exciting golf games (or is it matches? don't know, don't actually care either). Anyhow, thank you for your patience. I am (cautiously) hopeful that at least the next 3-4 chapters are ready to go. : )

The world seemed to have upended. Corey was Theo’s pack—Tracy was, Brett and Lori were… Images of the repeaters flashed over him. Lori’s terror, Tracy’s recognition that she was about to die, the cold, cruel _absence_ that cut them down… That was Theo’s pack. And he’d known. He’d known it! How could he be this stupid!

Stiles felt like the Incredible Hulk was standing on his chest—how did that work? Jesus, he was on the floor—when, how?

There was an explosion of noise as Erica came bursting in, shoving everyone out of the way so she could bend over him.

She was naked? Stiles’ brain struggled to make sense of it, but the pressure on his chest was too great. People were shouting but he felt like he was underwater, trying to breathe, trying to hear them, trying to become a person again.

“Stiles, what the fuck!” Erica shouted—at least that got through, but then she was wolfing out and yelling at Lydia? A massive brown wolf came up and sniffed him? And then another wolf? And a third? Jesus, was he in Astral? But Astral was nothing like this: there were no wolves there for one thing, but more important that wasn’t his real body there—just a really good illusion of one. No matter how upset or terrified he got, that bogus body couldn’t show symptoms of a panic attack, and that had to be what was happening, right?

One of the wolves turned into Jackson, also naked. So the other two were Boyd and Isaac? How lame was it that he was missing his first time seeing real wolves, but he was fighting too hard for air.

“Stiles!” Fuck it was Chris.

“God, please.” Stiles couldn’t stop himself—he grabbed for the Alpha, tried to beg him, something. Chris picked him up carefully, and brought him over to the sofa. He remembered that Chris didn’t want this, and he tried to pull away, but he couldn’t make his body obey. Instead he mashed his face against Chris’ neck, practically gnawing.

He could hear shouting: Erica was accusing Lydia of doing something to him, and Jackson was yelling back and Jordan was trying to explain and there was barking or whatever sound wolves make when they’re freaking out.

“Enough!” Peter finally roared. “Silence! Boyd and Isaac, _Shift back!_ All of you find some clothes.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Chris murmured, rubbing his back.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Stiles choked. “I don’t know why….” This was crazy, the last thing his boss wanted or needed.

“Easy, omega,” Chris murmured in that way that wasn’t the Alpha tone but seemed to penetrate right to Stiles’ soul.

“What happened?” Peter growled.

“Stiles.” Parrish sounded stunned. “He cracked it, he figured out the SuperTeen case....”

“What about the SuperTeen case?” Erica demanded.

“He figured out that Corey Bryant was behind one of the crimes Theo’s gang is suspected of,” Lydia said.

“The SuperTeens are Raeken’s pack,” Boyd said.

“Holy shit,” Jackson said.

Why did they sound so impressed? He couldn’t take it any more. He tried to shift off Chris’ lap, but the Alpha wouldn’t let him. Not that it mattered; everyone had just gotten a nice good look at what a basket case he was. “I’m sorry. I know I’m an idiot,” he sobbed. “I knew it was there, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it for some reason. We spent two days going through those files.” He knew he was going full-on omega right now but he couldn’t help it.

“Good god, Stiles, how long have you even known he had a pack!” Lydia cried.

“Dude, you cracked it—you rule!” Erica sounded almost hurt, but it just made it worse. He hated himself for it, for being so stupid, but he was crying so hard now, he was going to puke or pass out.

“All of you, out, now,” Peter ordered. “Don’t come back until I call. Boyd, call for some pizzas. Eat them in the apartment.”

There was a rustling as everyone booked out, probably thankful to be away from him. God, how could he be this pathetic. He knew he was falling into a full-on spiral but that just made it worse.

“Listen to me, sweetheart.” Peter knelt down next to him. “It was your pack too.”

What? That was crazy. He tried to say, “I didn’t even know them.”

“Stiles, when you found Tracy’s body,” Chris said. “She was part of _your_ pack.”

“No, that was the repeater. Because of Brett and Lori. God, they were in Theo’s pack too. I knew it, it was all there, and then when Theo found out about Tracy, he freaked out and left Astral. What is wrong with me!” What was wrong was he sounded like a fucking lunatic, which come to think of it, when the shoe fits….

“Christopher, enough is enough,” Peter said. “He needs you.” Fuck, Peter was angry _at Chris_. This was what he’d done.

“No, I’m fine, it’s just….”

“ _Quiet omega_ ,” Peter ordered. Peter gripped the back of his neck, making his whole body go loose and his head swim. It felt like a single coil in his chest unwound one millimeter, and somehow that was just enough for the air to flood in. Peter knelt down so his face was close. “Sweetheart, there’s something I want you to do for me. I think I it will help.” Peter lifted Chris’ hand and pushed the fingers against Stiles’ mouth. Stiles tried to resist—Chris didn’t want this--it was obvious. “ _Do not fight me, Omega_ ,” Peter snapped in the Alpha tone.

“Peter, don’t order him,” Chris tried to protest, but the Alpha tone rippled through him to his marrow and he shoved three of Chris’ fingers into his mouth. Stiles felt like one of those puppies in a YouTube video scrambling to nurse—he was disgusting, like an animal. He was sucking on them so frantically he almost choked. Even then, it wasn’t enough, but it was something. The tightness in his chest started to unwind a little more, one tiny twist at a time.

As his brain recovered a modicum of coherence, he ordered himself to stop or at least apologize but he couldn’t force himself to let go of Chris’ fingers. The whole thing reminded him of those moments at Eichen with Valack, where he lost all sense of himself, where nothing had any meaning or reality except his terror. But that was Eichen. Why was this happening here? He was fine and then a second later everything seemed to collapse.

He realized that Chris and Peter were arguing. “This has gone on long enough,” Peter hissed. “All the wolves can feel it. Right now his bond with you is the only one that isn’t stable. You’re an Alpha, this won’t cut it.”

“I promised I would protect him,” Chris growled. “I refuse to be another of the people to take away his agency.”

“Why don’t you just say it?” Peter shot back. “You mean the way I did.”

“Peter, I don’t want to fight about this. This isn’t about blaming you, but two days ago he made it very clear that he was not interested in another Alpha claim and then six hours later _my mate_ is giving him a pack bite. I am trying to give him space, a chance to figure out what _he_ wants.”

“You think I didn’t see his mark on your neck that first night? He claimed you the day he moved in, and then again and again every time he got the chance. You Chris, not me.”

“And it’s clear he didn’t understand what that meant.”

“No. What’s clear is that every single time he acts on his instincts, he chooses you. And now I need you to listen to yours.”

He tried to wail, “Don’t fight!” but with the fingers in his mouth it just came out a garbled mess.

Peter was in his face. “Stiles, sweetheart, this is what I was trying to explain to you. We need to finalize this bond, you need it, Chris needs it, and the pack needs it. Get down on your knees. That’s what would make you feel better, right?”

“Peter, do not manipulate him, damn it….” Chris snapped.

“Christopher! I need you to trust me right now.” Peter sounded furious. Oh god, he’d done it, everything was falling apart because of him…. _“Omega attend!”_ Peter snapped. “Do you remember what I promised you?” Stiles managed a nod. “I need you to tell the truth _right now_.” Peter gently pried Chris’ fingers out of Stiles’ mouth. “Would it make you feel better to suck him? _Tell the truth, omega_.”

“Please, I’m sorry, please, just for a second.” Fuck, he sounded like he was raving.

To Chris, Peter said sharply, “I know why you’re afraid, but you have to trust me right now--and trust him--because you are not thinking clearly. I am right here, and I will never let anything happen to you or to him.” Chris looked wrecked. “Stiles, sweetheart, get down.” Peter guided him down and kneeling behind him opened Chris’ jeans and pulled out his mate’s cock.

Stiles’ mouth was watering because he was a fucking freak. “You promise?” he whimpered.

“I promise, princess.”

That was the best he could do. He fell on Chris’ cock like he had his fingers, like he was starving, letting the world shrink down to just the sensation and the scent and the submission. He was probably sucking too hard, but he seemed to have lost control over his body and mind. For no good reason that he could see, something had cracked up, something he didn’t understand, and his best, his only hope was to trust Peter to get him through it.

“That’s it, pet, gently,” Peter was murmuring right in his ear. “Beautiful. Now there’s something very important for all of us to clear up. I promised you that I would not let you do anything that would hurt Chris, remember?” Stiles did his best to nod. “Good boy. Now pay careful attention: I warned you that Chris had certain instincts. Those instincts tend to get more intense when he’s tired or when an omega is hurting, both of which are true right now. When he acts on them, it can be overwhelming. I told you before that he will never, ever hurt you, but I think we all know that it can be difficult for an omega to speak up and object in that situation. Just knowing an Alpha wants something can feel like intense pressure, and Chris is trying very hard to protect you from that. The problem is that you’ve claimed him, and the fact that both of you are holding back is hurting you, badly. And as should also be clear, I am not Chris, which means that I have no problem pushing both of you to figure this out.

“Now, if you just need an Alpha to fuck you, I will take you upstairs this moment, and fuck you until you can’t see straight--and no one will be upset or disappointed in you in any way. But if you want Chris, if you _need_ Chris, then you need to make clear that you understand. I told you before that I wouldn’t let you hurt Chris, and here’s the complication, princess. _Nothing_ would hurt Chris more than feeling like he’d abused his Alpha power to pressure you into something you didn’t want. Do you understand, Stiles? Do you see what’s been happening between the two of you? Are you calm enough to answer this? Then pull off and _answer truthfully, omega_.”

“I do. I do understand--I’m sorry.”

“No,” Peter said firmly. “No apologies from you. This was my fault and Chris’, and I know that can be hard to cope with for an omega. When I bit you, I took away your choice, and that put Chris in an impossible position. He should have talked to you, but I hope you can forgive him for worrying that anything he said would come off as putting pressure on you two to bond. Now here it is, sweetheart: do you want the bond with Chris?”

“I need to say it,” Stiles cried. “I’m sorry--I understand now. What you tried to show me the other day. I do want you. I think--I think I luh….” But he couldn’t bring himself to say _that_ , to expose himself so completely, which was ridiculous given how he was acting right now. “Please, I can’t take this, you avoiding me, not talking to you, please.”

“No!” Peter stopped Chris before he could say anything. “I am the Alpha of this pack, and I am not afraid to say what I want. Right now, what I want is to see you riding Chris’ cock. That will satisfy the pack bond. Chris, any objections?”

“No,” he said hoarsely.

“And you, sweetheart? You ready for Chris to fuck you?”

“Oh God, please,” he gasped.

“Good, then back on your Alpha’s cock; get him nice and ready.” Stiles shuddered as lust finally seemed to make headway against whatever had caused his breakdown. He fell on Chris’ cock, mouth watering. It wasn’t an exaggeration: he’d never wanted anything so badly than, just… _Chris_ \--to taste him, touch him, fuck him. Peter had said something: that _he’d_ claimed Chris. Stiles recognized it now--this was different.

“Can I pull down your pants, see that lovely cock of yours?” Peter’s voice was like liquid sex in his ear.

Stiles grunted and tried to nod. Peter slid down his boxers and sweatpants and nudged him to lift his legs to get them off. The Alpha disappeared for a moment but then was back. Next he felt Peter’s lubed fingers inside him. “Already wet, so perfect. Let’s get you on then.” He physically lifted Stiles up and placed him on Chris’ lap, positioned him over Chris’ cock and then gently pulled him until he was fully seated.

“Oh god,” he sobbed. He needed… he needed something in his mouth. He brushed his face up against Chris’ neck. “Please, please can I?”

“Whatever you need, kiddo,” Chris murmured.

He latched onto Chris’s pulse point, sucking as hard as he could.

“That’s right, lay your claim, sweetheart,” Peter crooned. Meanwhile, Peter reached around and started gently stroking his dick and using his other hand to move him on Chris’ cock. It was slow, too slow, but also perfect. “There we are, nice and easy. You know what I think, I think you can come just from this, just from your Alpha rocking you. And as I do it, I want both of you to look for the pack bonds. I want you to _feel_ them forming.”

Just hearing Peter’s words sent a shiver down his soul. It was probably exhaustion, but he felt himself letting go. He didn’t want to fight any more. He’d thought that Eichen, Valack, Theo had wrecked his trust in others, but it was really his trust in himself that was destroyed: right and wrong, what he knew about himself, what he felt, what he wanted--he had no confidence in any of it. But there was one thing here he could cling to, one absolute fact: Peter loved Chris. Peter wouldn’t hurt Chris. And that fact was stronger than all the doubts and fears and confusion in his head.

“You’re close, sweetheart, I can feel it,” Peter said. “And I can feel you settling into the bond with this pack, and princess, never _ever_ doubt that bond is a beautiful thing. Just let go, sink into it. If you do it, Chris will be able to. He needs you. We all do. You make all of us stronger—don’t fight it, just trust that it’s true.”

He wanted to yell at Peter to move him, move _them_ , faster, harder. He wanted to struggle for the orgasm, but somehow the Alpha’s words sank into him, and he knew he just had to let go. There were too many parts of himself that would sabotage anything healthy or positive in his life. Giving in to Peter was his way through this. And, he realized abruptly, that was just as true for Chris. He hid it much better, but Chris struggled with guilt and doubt too.

So he let go, slumped against Chris, and went passive and let Peter drive him forward, closer and closer, until he yelled into Chris’ neck as shudder after shudder of pleasure wracked his body. Peter kissed Chris and then Stiles on the mouth. “That was perfect, sweetheart.”

Peter stepped away and then said fiercely, “Now Chris, finish this—I promise you on my life that he can take everything you can give.”

It looked like Chris was still fighting this. Stiles did the only thing he could think of: he grabbed the Alpha’s hand and put it on his throat. “I want it. Please, show me.” Chris tightened the grip on his throat as a warning. “I understand now. Please, Chris.”

He saw the moment Chris let the Alpha take over. His eyes went red and for the first time, his fangs dropped. “If that’s what you want, then are you willing to wear my marks, omega?”

“Oh god, yes, please do it.”

Chris threw him down on the sofa and tore open his shirt and then keeping one hand on Stiles’ throat, he started sucking mark after mark on his stomach, his chest, his neck. Some omega instinct warned him not to struggle. If he didn’t trust Chris completely, he wouldn’t like this. Peter hadn’t exaggerated: it didn’t hurt, but it was overwhelming, on the edge of too much. Each mark felt like an imperious command that he recognize the Alpha’s claim on him.

He understood now why Chris had held back, why he’d needed Peter to push him to this point. This was what Chris kept hidden behind that wall of affable calm, what he fought so hard to keep under control. Peter knew—and now Stiles did too. This wasn’t just about his trusting Chris—it was about Chris trusting him. This was part of being pack with Chris.

After leaving more than a dozen livid red marks all over Stiles’ torso, Chris sat up on top of him so he could run a finger along them, like he wanted to check his work. Stiles could have sworn that the pack bond Peter had forged had opened a channel between them, because Stiles was almost blasted by a sensation of possessiveness. “Human Alphas are more territorial than wolves.” Chris seemed to read his thought. “And we demand greater submission. Do you understand, omega?”

Chris’s eyes were still red and each word he spoke had the resonance of the Alpha tone, even though these weren’t orders demanding obedience. It was like once Chris gave in to his Alpha side, he couldn’t turn it off.

There was a lot about Chris that Stiles didn’t understand, but he got on a visceral level that this would be a fundamentally different dynamic than he’d experienced with the other Alphas in his life. Not all the time, and probably not even very often, but when Chris let himself go, this was what it was like. And though the past day had been tough, he couldn’t blame Chris for holding back, trying to give him space. On Friday, Chris had tried to give him a hint of what Stiles would be getting into with him, and Stiles had immediately rejected it.

“I do. I want to know all of you,” Stiles said.

“I’m taking you at your word, omega,” Chris said harshly and then moved down to suck a huge mark on each of his inner thighs. And then suddenly the Alpha had his mouth on Stiles’ cock, taking him deep and then going back to get his tongue around his balls. Stiles yelled from pure shock. He’d had blow jobs, but he’d assumed that no Alpha would ever be willing to go down on him.

Chris was more than willing: he seemed to crave it. But it was nothing like an omega sucking cock. He didn’t need comfort. It was about ownership: Stiles realized it was just like the marks. Anywhere the Alpha put his mouth, now bore his claim.

Chris shoved Stiles’ knees up towards his ears so he could get his mouth _lower_ and then, _holyfuckingdamn_ his tongue was plunging in. Stiles had never felt anything like it. He babbled out something like “I can’t” and then “Don’t stop.” He couldn’t help struggling against Chris’ grip and the overwhelming sensation of his tongue in his ass. Thankfully, the Alpha had no trouble holding him, which was pushing him to the edge.

Fuck, he was going to come again. Chris must have sensed something because he pulled up and grabbed Stiles’ cock and squeezed. “Who controls this?” he growled.

“You, always, please!”

“You’re an omega. You do not come until your Alpha tells you. Is that clear?”

“Yes Alpha.”

“Do you need the command? _Answer me_.”

“Yes, please, sorry.”

_“You’ll come when I tell you.”_

That was definitely a full Alpha command. He screamed in sheer frustration as the orgasm was stopped in its tracks. But Chris was lining his dick up with Stiles’ entrance, and then thrusting into him. Chris put his hand on Stiles’ throat again. It was light, not enough to hurt or cut off his air, but as gestures go, it was deeply, unnervingly dominant. Stiles hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes, until he heard the growled, _“Keep your eyes on mine, omega.”_

“Oh fuck.” He whimpered and couldn’t help thrashing as part of him struggled against that particular order. It left both of them almost unbearably exposed. As he stared into the Alpha’s eyes, Stiles couldn’t pretend that he didn’t see that relentless will to possess and dominate. But Chris was not going to let him hide from any part of this.

It was all the more jarring because they were actually in what omegas joked was the ‘vanilla’ position--missionary--which, unlike the ‘breeding’ position, was supposedly more equal since the partners were face to face. That was a laugh: Stiles had never felt so completely dominated in his life.

The Alpha’s fangs were down, and Stiles felt a bizarre clarity. Peter had said he’d claimed Chris--and now it was Chris’ turn. He turned his head, exposing his neck. “Do it, please,” he begged.

 _“Come now,”_ Chris ordered, and then he bit, hard, right over the mating bite, right over Peter’s pack bite from the other night. Stiles’ entire body seized, like the whole orgasm engulfed him at the same second the Alpha command did. At least with Chris there was no risk of his shooting into Astral. No indeed--there was no escape from this. Stiles had invited Chris to unleash this Alpha power and he had no choice but to see it through. It really did feel that way: the bite seemed to push Chris to the edge of his control. The Alpha slammed into him again and again, as if each thrust could reinforce that Alpha instinct to claim. Stiles felt when the thrusts began to stagger, but at the very last moment, Chris pulled out so he could shoot his load on the marks. It was of a piece with the rest--an unambiguous assertion of ownership.

And then just as suddenly it was all over. Stiles could just feel it. He looked up. Chris had his eyes closed—now that he’d come, he was back in control and had to face how completely he’d let himself go.

Stiles put his hand on Chris’ cheek and pulled him down so he could kiss him. Chris opened his eyes--they’d gone back to the familiar steel blue. He looked like he was going to say something, but Stiles cut him off: “Please don’t apologize. I know I do it too much, but please don’t you. I’m not sure I can handle it if you regret this. Tell Peter later if you want, but just let me be here with you.”

Chris gave him a tender kiss and then sat both of them up on the couch. “I am not sorry we just did this. Never think that.” Chris paused for a moment and then said, “I should have talked to you earlier. Peter was right—I wasn’t thinking clearly. My brilliant plan to break the ice between you and my mate backfired about as spectacularly as a plan can: your being seen with Peter at the Jungle put you in Deucalion’s crosshairs and then landed you with a pack bite you didn’t want.” When Stiles tried to protest, Chris corrected, “Didn’t consent to. I felt like I’d broken my promise that I would protect you, but I didn’t trust myself to talk to you. The truth is that I’ve felt a bond since we met at Eichen, but telling you that on top of Peter’s bite--I didn’t think I could do it without it amounting to pressure for you to consent when you weren’t ready.”

“Okay. Non-apology accepted. And forgive me if I’m not bummed to discover that you are not completely perfect all the time.”

“God, that’s the last thing you should think of me.”

Chris really meant it. Stiles didn’t have much experience—or any experience—with being a total badass hero, but he knew all about bottomless guilt. “You rescue people, dude. It’s an occupational hazard.”

Chris smiled which made Stiles feel a rush of _something_ that he’d actually said the right thing to make the Alpha feel better. “I don’t know if this will help,” Chris added a minute later, “but Peter didn’t ask me either.”

“When he bit you? You’re shitting me!” Chris shook his head. “Jesus! You’re right, it does help—I mean, I’m not glad he did it to you or anything….”

“It’s okay, Stiles, and believe me it caused one of the worst fights we’ve ever had. I am not in any way trying to excuse what he did to you—Peter and I were in a relationship after all—but I didn’t want you to think it was just because of your dynamic.”

“That fucking prick—he was so on about Theo and couldn’t be bothered to mention that he’d done the same thing.”

“It’s not quite the same—Alphas can’t share healing so neither of us is at risk of dying from it. But speaking of Raeken, again I am not trying to excuse what he did, but now that we know someone was targeting his pack, I’m not as…surprised that he’d feel driven to take steps to protect you.”

“I appreciate what you’re saying, and that you’re trying to say something nice about him. Especially since thanks to me he’s now in your pack. He might have had his reasons for biting me, but he still could have asked, or explained why he’d done it, or even told me the other day when he found out I was investigating Tracy’s murder, which I suppose I should get back to.”

“One more minute,” Chris murmured, filling Stiles with an emotion he couldn’t name--or at least say aloud. He leaned against the Alpha’s chest and Chris put his arms around him and kissed the top of his head.

“I can feel it, the bond,” Stiles said after a while.

“Me too.”

He leaned back so he could look into Chris’ eyes. He willed Chris to see everything he felt, everything he didn’t know how to say. “It’s different with you, the bond. And not because you’re human. I’m never going to forget that you let me choose. And Chris, I would _always_ choose the bond with you.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a tiny calm before the storm really gets going.

Stiles gave himself about five minutes in Chris’ arms. It felt amazing, and he hoped the time helped Chris too. But it was all either of them could really spare right now. He gave Chris a quick kiss and stood up, scanning the area for his sweats. _Jesus, when did Peter have time in all of that to fold them?_ Freak.

Peter came downstairs then. “Everyone is at the apartment. I assumed you’d want to have a meeting.”

“Definitely,” Chris answered.

“Are we including that deputy of yours?”

“Until he wants to leave.”

“Fine, so long as we’re clear: _hound_ does not mean _wolf_. He counts as human.”

It was obvious Peter considered Jordan another of Chris’ misfit toys, but if the Hell Hound wanted in this pack, Stiles was all for it. Stiles was also getting used to the werewolf’s preference for acting like nothing unusual had happened—like, say, a sorta threesome on his living room sofa.

He was not so happy to feel the spike of anxiety at the idea of facing the rest of the team/pack. Apparently the amazing sex was not enough to offset the general stress caused by werewolf fanatics, a murderous mate, and a vicious serial killer. Go figure.

Chris seemed to catch it because he put his hand on Stiles’ neck and squeezed gently, and then left it there as they walked out of the townhouse and around to his apartment, which he’d barely stepped foot in since before work on Friday.

It was kind of trashed: there were pizza boxes, open suitcases, piles of clothes and dishes, and papers everywhere. Most surprising were the three crime boards from HQ arranged around the edges of his living room like morbid murals. Boyd and Isaac were looking them over while Lydia and Parrish huddled over their respective laptops.

“Oh, hey boss, Peter,” Boyd said. “Jackson and Isaac used Isaac’s truck to get these. Figured we’d need them.”

“Good thinking,” Chris said. Peter did not look pleased about the mess, but miraculously managed to repress any remark—which was good since he was the one who had invited four werewolves to set up camp here.

“Partner!” Erica cried, as she came in from the bedroom. “Are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah, better, sorry,” he mumbled.

Lydia gave him a pointed look. “You should eat something. There’s still pizza left.”

“I got it,” Erica said, heading to the kitchen area.

“Thanks, that would, uh, be great.”

Stiles wanted to cry that Erica was being so nice to him. He hadn’t missed that she must have booked towards the house the moment she felt he was in trouble. Somehow he had earned her loyalty, and he desperately wanted to be worthy of it.

Lydia patted the sofa next to her, which felt as much like an order as one of Peter’s Alpha commands. Once he was seated, Erica thrust a paper plate with a slice of pepperoni at him, and then plopped down next to him, almost like she sensed how comforting it would be for him to be squeezed between two of his favorite people.

Maybe it was the food, or the gratitude, but he felt a strange sense of clarity: to be the partner Erica deserved, he had to step up, but to do that meant dumping his usual instinct to apologize. Apologies were nothing more than a reflex for Stiles, a way to evade pain or placate—they begged for reassurance without assuming responsibility.

And the weirdest realization was that accepting responsibility meant accepting that he really had something worthwhile to offer this team; but it also meant accepting that he had a busload of baggage that he couldn’t always prevent from affecting his teammates.

Though he really wanted to just hide right now, he raised his hand and said to Chris, “Before we start, could I say something?”

“Go ahead.”

He took a deep breath and looked for the pack bond. He needed that front and center. “You’ve all figured out by now that I have pretty bad PTSD. It’s both the shit that went down at Eichen and it’s also looking like there is some stuff with my dynamic as well. I really don’t want to talk about Eichen and I’d prefer you not ask me about it. I promise I am going to get therapy, literally as soon as possible, and I think it will get better in time—I hope so—but I also think that it will probably never go away completely. Right now the triggers seem tied to the repeaters, but it stands to reason there are others out there that I don’t know about. When I lose it like that, the best thing is to get me to Chris as soon as possible. Or Peter if Chris isn’t available. If you can’t, I’m not going to die, but I probably will pass out. If I find out more or if the therapist has recommendations, I promise that I’ll be open about anything that affects the team. I really hope nothing happens that puts you guys at risk, but just going forward, you should know that me losing it is a possibility. Um, if you have questions or shit, obviously ask, but otherwise, I’d really rather just move on.”

Erica looked like she was bursting to say something, but to his relief, it was actually Peter who spoke. “We will make sure to factor that into our security discussions. As soon as this is done, Chris, Boyd and I will be deciding on how we will handle that going forward; once those procedures are established, there will be _no deviation_ by anyone, wolf or human. Is that clear?”

No one was stupid enough to disagree of course. Stiles had to hand it to Peter: the werewolf wasn’t exactly Mr. Sensitive, but he seemed to have right instinct here: Acknowledge Stiles’ multitude of issues as a logistical consideration, and move on.

“Thank you for letting us know that, Stiles,” Chris said, and then somehow guessing that Stiles was desperate to get the spotlight off of him, he added, “Boyd, could you bring us up to speed on the investigation.”

Stiles wanted to kiss their boss. Boyd had a gift for delivering succinct reports that hit every important point on how they’d narrowed down the pile and concluded that Corey Bryant was in Theo’s pack, and he did so with a complete absence of meandering, backtracking, apologies, or “ums.” Stiles especially appreciated that Boyd shared credit between him, Lydia and Jordan; while Stiles was coming around to the conviction that he was pretty decent at this, he was also positive that he couldn’t have done any of it without Lydia or someone else receptive to bounce ideas off of.

Chris nodded. “I hope it goes without saying that that was some really first class deductive work, yesterday and today. Lydia and Stiles obviously tackled the bulk of it, but I know that the rest of you have been helping as much as you can in between everything else you’ve had to do, and Jordan, don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve given up your Sunday.”

“Anything to help.” Of course Parrish said that, and somehow didn’t even sound like a suck-up.

Chris said, “I think this team is really coming together and I’m proud of how all of you have worked together and supported each other.”

Peter added, “Astonished as I am to be saying this, I am also very pleased with how fast you all have been able to develop the pack bonds. Erica, you especially. You instantly sensed when one of our humans was in distress, and didn’t hesitate to act. The rest of us were able to use the bond with Erica to identify and respond ourselves. In fact, that will greatly speed up what we’re trying to do. Instead of all the wolves trying to keep track of all three humans, we can rely on Erica’s bond to Stiles, mine to Chris, and Jackson’s to Lydia.”

It felt a little like a crash course on good leadership: thanks the burgeoning pack bond, Stiles could literally feel how Boyd, Chris and Peter together were able to reassure and encourage the rest of the team.

“As far as the SuperTeens go,” Chris continued, “obviously the next step is to see if we can narrow down who might have motive and opportunity to target Raeken’s pack. Stiles, am I right that you’d like to keep working on this?”

“Uh, yeah, definitely, especially with the crime boards from work. And now that we know what we’re looking for.”

“Lydia and Jordan—you look like you’ve been working on something.”

“Jordan and I are going through all the cases I logged and eliminating ones that BHPD already cleared.”

“There are a lot,” Parrish said. “Sorry, you guys wasted so much time….”

Chris smiled, “Not your fault, Jordan.” At least Stiles wasn’t the only one who made unnecessary apologies.

Stiles raised his hand again, which probably wasn’t helping his image as a badass Law Enforcement Professional, but he was still feeling fragile and one of his miracle insights was that he had to play ball with his anxiety, work with it not against it, if he wanted to meet his responsibilities.  

“Stiles,” Chris nodded at him.

“Yeah, uh, just vis a vis the cases: it wasn’t a total waste. It actually told us how the Werewolf Council is approaching this. I mean, all it took was a quick check against the BHPD database to eliminate dozens of cases, and yet they didn’t bother. So now we know: the Council was basically loading Theo up with every crime under the sun, and I gotta wonder why. Why not just focus on the ones where he is guilty—since there are obviously plenty? Peter, do you know anything about how these files were put together or who was behind it?”

“I actually have no idea. I assume Deucalion, but that’s just a guess.”

“It would really help if we could find that out,” Stiles said.

“Explain,” Chris said.

Stiles realized everyone was looking at him again. Jesus. He swallowed but managed to say, “Uh, it’s just the connection with Deucalion. It’s really bugging me.”

“Famous last words,” Lydia quipped. “Trust me, when Stiles says something’s bugging him, clear your calendar.”

“Keep going,” Chris encouraged him.

Another deep breath. “Okay, I mean, I think it’s clear we can rule out Deucalion for the SuperTeens.”

“Wait, you do?” Erica said.

“Yeah, I thought that even before I realized they were Theo’s pack. It never made sense that Ennis Marks would try so hard to cover up his involvement in Marco’s murder and then go and murder four more people exactly the same way. And even more so if the victims were in Theo’s pack. Why wouldn’t he just challenge them, right? Wouldn’t that be more, I dunno, _prestigious_ for a werewolf badass to take someone down in a challenge?” He looked at Peter.

“Absolutely,” Peter answered. “When people find out that Ennis Marks needed a gun to kill a twenty-two year old bitten beta wolf he is going to discover entire new galaxies of humiliation.” Peter’s eyes glowed red and he practically smacked his lips with anticipation at the thought.

“Okay,” Boyd mused. “So that means our perp is a copy cat.”

“Exactly,” Stiles answered. “But my question is: did the SuperTeen murderer know that Ennis Marks killed Marco Gutierrez.”

“You think it matters,” Lydia said.

“I don’t know, but there are too many threads that keep coming back to Deucalion. He’s orchestrated this campaign in the Council against Theo, he threatens me and risks war with the Hale pack over Theo? Now we find out that the perp who is picking off Theo’s pack copied a murder by a member of Deucalion’s pack?”

“Almost like someone was killing Raeken’s pack to frame Ennis Marks?” Isaac mused.

“Wow, yeah,” Stiles said, genuinely impressed. “Honestly I have no idea if that’s true…. I know it’s just spitballing…”

“It’s more than just spitballing, Stiles,” Lydia said impatiently. “We’re making progress. It would be absurd to stop now—I assume you agree, Jordan?”

“Absolutely.”

“You know, if Deucalion was actually like, the Bane Kingpin of Beacon Hills, he’d have a pretty good motive to try to pin that on your mate, right?” Erica said.

“Oh my god, thank you!” Stiles blurted. “Yes, that’s it, that explains those fucking files, and why they’re such a mess. They didn’t want the Council to know what Theo was actually up to—that might call attention to the fact that he wasn’t dealing Bane, and lead people to wonder why Duke was so eager to pin it on him.”

“You know,” Lydia added, “I wonder if Theo was shaking down dealers in his territory. We never did find any actual files that mention extortion, but Stiles always thought that fit Theo’s profile.”

“And if Raeken was shaking down Deucalion’s dealers, cutting into his profits….” Boyd said.

Peter laughed wickedly. “A bitten Alpha—that _would_ sting. It makes me detest your mate slightly less.”

“This is excellent,” Chris said. “Exactly the kind of thinking we need. I said it before: this situation is developing rapidly. You need to stay alert and be able to change gears and react in case a new threat appears. I think we can assume that could happen at any time. In the meantime, however, as far as the team goes, helping break the SuperTeen case is the priority. This is not just about solving a tough case anymore. A murderer has been targeting Raeken’s pack, which for all intents and purposes is now _this_ pack. I know Peter is working with you and that’s important, but stay abreast of whatever Stiles and Lydia are doing and help whenever you can. There is a lot of basic police work to be done—pinning down dates and locations, crimes we can tie to the SuperTeens. Stiles, anything you can remember about Raeken’s time in Eichen, check against the dates of the murders. Anything that helps us fill in the picture of what his pack was up to, who might be targeting them and why.”

“That’s the team,” Peter said. “And now for the pack: As Chris has suggested, we are no longer just worried about Deucalion, but also our unknown murderer. As of now, we are on full alert. All four wolves are shifting, which was the first step and will greatly increase your ability to defend yourselves. So our next task is to fully integrate our humans, specifically you, Miss Martin. All of us got a very clear sense of what the bond to Stiles feels like from Erica, but now we need to do the same for you. However, our task is complicated because unlike Stiles, you are not in distress.”

“What do you need?” Lydia said.

“There’s something else we need to consider,” Jackson spoke for the first time. “Lydia’s scream.” Lydia instantly went white and pinched her lips. Jackson looked wretched, but he pushed on: “The guy killed a kanima, Lydia. You need to be able to protect yourself; I know you don’t want to hurt the pack, but that’s why you need to figure it out now.”

Stiles’ stomach fell. Lydia would only react like this for one reason. “Call-me-Jennifer” Blake, with the sweet smile and the cute little cardigans. She was her own type of nightmare: a woman who could literally sit and hold your hand while you cried, and give all sorts of reassuring, apparently sincere advice, and then call Brunski in to drag you off for some procedure that would make your skin crawl just to hear described.

Jennifer had been particularly fascinated by Lydia’s banshee powers--like Valack had been with Stiles’ psychic abilities. And that’s how he knew Lydia was stronger than he’d ever be, because bad as Valack was, Jennifer was worse.

Stiles hated that Lydia was upset, but he had a feeling Jackson was right to bring it up. The dude was a total asshole and a borderline douche but there was no questioning his loyalty to Lydia. He wouldn’t have said anything that hurtful if he didn’t think it might save her life.

She might well be afraid to use the scream—if Jennifer had forced her to hurt people with it…. Stiles felt a rush of nausea. He remembered the day Donovan died. Even by Eichen’s dismal standards, the guy sucked shit. He had been involved in a bunch of “incidents” with female inmates—“incident” being Eichen-speak for attempted rape. One of those incidents had involved Heather, and Lydia was not a forgiving person. The day Donovan bought it—people weren’t cheering, but they weren’t crying either. But Lydia had looked so frozen, exactly like she did right now….

Like Jennifer had forced her to….

His eyes burned. God, there just weren’t words for how much he _hated_ Jennifer….

To his shock, he felt a burning rush of something like lust towards _Theo_ of all people. His mate might have been acting for totally selfish reasons, but he was the one who put a stop to it all. Because of Theo, Jennifer Blake and Gabriel Valack would never hurt anyone ever again. Stiles just wished Theo had made them suffer more.

Peter had a laser-focused expression he sometimes got. “It would be irresponsible not to take advantage,” he instructed the wolves. “Negative emotions are easier to sense and Miss Martin’s are especially strong right now. Focus on the bond with Jackson, and then through him, look for her. Once you’ve located her, finding her again will be much easier.”

“Stiles too right now,” Erica said softly.

Jesus. He hadn’t even realized. Thanks to Heather, both he and Lydia knew what it was like to live with someone you couldn’t hide from, but it would still take some getting used to that his teammates, packmates now, could sense each emotional blip. He felt a little jealous: he could feel the pack bond, and something that he might describe as the emotional temperature of the group, but there was no way he could identify, say, Isaac or Lydia separately from the overall pack.

“I got it,” Isaac said. “Both of them.”

“Impressive,” Peter said. “You’re using the empathy—very clever. Try to piggy-back on it, Boyd.”

Isaac looked at Boyd: “Focus on me: this is Lydia.” When Boyd nodded, he said, “And this is Stiles.”

“Got it,” Boyd said.

“Excellent. Erica?” Peter said.

“I can only feel Stiles--sorry,” Erica said.

“Jackson, I assume you have the same problem?” Peter said.

“I can only feel Lydia,” he said hoarsely.

“That’s not surprising,” Peter said. “The crucial point is that all the humans are accounted for and that we can correctly identify each bond.”

Stiles wasn’t surprised when Lydia murmured, “I need a moment,” and got up and went out the front door, with Jackson following close behind.

Chris and Peter exchanged one of their silent communications, which somehow provoked Peter to respond, “No. We can’t afford a delay. I’ll see what she needs to deploy this… weapon.” He rolled his eyes, probably at the prospect of deploying a misfit toy in battle. “Go to your little dungeon and figure out what you have that can help us—starting I hope with some form of protective ear wear.”

“Armory, not dungeon,” Chris said.

“A man can hope.” Peter gave Chris a light kiss and then followed Lydia and Jackson out the door.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, so, apologies are probably in order for the cliff hangers in the next few chapters. 
> 
> A few thoughts on guns: So I won't call what follows gun porn, but definitely one of the appeals of the character Chris Argent for many people is his badass and (to me) very sexy competence with all manner of deadly weapon. Going along with my attempts at a procedural, I was trying to do an omega!Stiles version of the traditional 'let's get suited up' scene from a million different law enforcement and action shows. Given recent events in the U.S., I've been thinking a lot about how firearms are portrayed in media. I did not opt to cut or rewrite the scene, but going forward I've decided that I shouldn't include guns in my fiction until I've thought harder about how they should be portrayed. I have a feeling that we will start to see a shift, much as we did with smoking (at least in the U.S.), away from portraying guns as cool and sexy and towards something more in keeping with their destructiveness--at least that's my hope.

Chris turned to him. “Stiles, can I assume you’ve never fired a gun before?”

Like _anyone_ in their right mind would give _him_ a gun? “Uh, yes that is a safe assumption. You don’t want me to carry one, do you?”

Chris shook his head, as he walked around the couch to the back wall where there was a heavy door that was kept locked. He’d been told it connected to Chris and Peter’s part of the house.

Chris flipped open an inconspicuous panel at the side of the door and then leaned in--because it was a fucking retinal-scanner! The locked clicked and Chris pulled the door open.

If Stiles had been curious about why his apartment was about half the size of Peter and Chris’ ground floor, here was his answer. Apparently he’d been sleeping next to a weapons depot. It looked like the set of a Bond movie. More than a dozen assault rifles filled a rack on the far wall, while three rows of floor-to-ceiling shelving ran the length of the room, all of them neatly packed with every weapon Stiles could imagine—and then another few hundred he’d never imagined.  

“Uh, that’s a fair bit of firepower,” Stiles squeaked.

Chris gave him his wry smile. “Before I started PsyCrime, I was in the security business. I’m still a federally licensed firearms dealer.”

Right, and apparently once Chris quit that gig, he moved a big box store’s worth of inventory into his basement.

“Peter said your family were hunters?”

“That’s right. My family has always known about the supernatural. For generations before the Big Reveal, we were tasked with hunting down werewolves and psychics who abused their abilities in order to kill innocents—careful with that.”

Stiles realized that the “ball” that he’d absently picked up was in fact a grenade. “Uh maybe I’ll just wait outside,” he said putting it down, only to back into a box filled with pointy, probably explosive thingies. “Definitely outside.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Chris said. “Hey Jordan, I could use your help with this.”

“Of course.”

“If you don’t mind, close the door. I need to check these emitters and I don’t want to disturb the rest of the team.”

Jordan obeyed of course, closing the door. Back in his living room, Isaac and Boyd were pinning up Corey Bryant’s jewelry thefts onto his board, while Erica cleared the pizza boxes. “How’d you like Chris’ toy room?” she asked.

“Yeah, so it turns out that I’ve been sleeping twelve feet away from enough firepower to invade a small country. So I’m pretty sure I’ll never sleep right again.”

Erica laughed. “Someone should probably have mentioned that Chris really likes his guns.”

“Hey Stiles,” Isaac said, “Can I talk to you for a second.”

Stiles hoped he didn’t look too shocked that Isaac would willingly initiate a conversation with him. They moved towards the little hall outside his bedroom, which looked like a tornado had swept through—or rather that four werewolves had a slumber party there. Given werewolf hearing, it was only the illusion of privacy but he knew that was the etiquette. “Yeah, what’s up?”

Isaac handed him a business card. “This is the number for my therapist’s office. She’s really good. It wouldn’t work for you to see _her_ , but maybe someone in her group, or she can give you a referral.”

“Thanks, that would be great,” he said, pocketing the card. “I will definitely call first thing tomorrow.”

“Fucking A!” Boyd cried suddenly. Boyd was not known for his outbursts, so Stiles figured something on the order of the zombie apocalypse had just launched.

“What happened?” Erica demanded.

“I was working up Bryant’s timeline. Look at the day he was murdered.” They all came close to the board.

It was October fifth, which Stiles already knew. Boyd slapped the board, “Look!”

“Yeah, sorry, what am I seeing?” Stiles asked.

“Dude, it’s like your anniversary,” Erica said.

“That’s the day Raeken butchered those people at Eichen,” Isaac added.

Stiles could feel his face burning. They were all staring at him like he was nuts—then again….

“Okay, so this weird thing happens when you’re institutionalized,” he said, hoping against hope that he sounded flip. “Which is that after about three weeks, you lose any sense of what day it is.”

Stiles half feared they’d all look appalled or pitying, but instead there was a general shrug. Boyd turned back to the board. “It was five for five.”

“What do you mean?” Isaac asked.

“They killed five of his pack, and he retaliated.”

“Five people,” Stiles murmured. “That’s like a werewolf thing?”

“Stiles, are you okay?” Erica put her hand on his shoulder.

“Not really,” he said, collapsing on the couch.

“Anything you remember from that night that might help?” Boyd was never one to coddle.

It seemed unlikely, but Stiles forced himself to think back. One of the unfunny ironies of that night was that up until the moment he felt Theo’s fangs piercing his neck, he’d been sure they were in Astral—it was like their first night, only in reverse. He did remember noticing the blood on Theo’s claws, though he wouldn’t understand until days later what it meant. Basically the only other thing he recalled about that night was his own blistering rage.

The bite itself was bad enough. He’d been completely, _repeatedly_ clear with Theo from day one: no exclusivity, he didn’t want to mate. So it’s safe to say that when he realized what the Alpha had done, he was furious. He started yelling, only to have Theo tell him to “calm down.” Like he was overreacting? That worked as well as putting out a campfire with liquid propane, which then led Theo to use the fucking Alpha tone to order him to _shut up_.

The next part was scorched into his brain. Theo had said in a tone that made clear he thought Stiles was being unreasonable, “Look, I get that you’re upset, but I didn’t have a choice, and it had to be tonight, otherwise I would have talked to you about it before.”

 _Talked to_ which last Stiles checked was not the same as _asked permission_. It was sickeningly clear that Theo considered asking for his consent to _a lifelong mating_ as a courtesy, something nice that he’d do if it was convenient. But once Theo had decided to mate him, there was only one answer he’d accept: yes.

After that Stiles had been unreachable: he was so angry he was literally choking; he was so angry he _couldn’t see_.

It was probably for the best that about thirty seconds later, five huge guys wearing what looked like fucking SWAT gear burst in, tased Theo, and shot Stiles with a tranq.

The next five days had been spent in the infirmary, cuffed to a bed and under heavy sedation, as he rode out the post-mating delirium which hit him because whoever took over from Jennifer refused to allow him contact with his new mate.

“Dude, Stiles.” He blinked to see Erica hovering over him. “Hey, it’s okay. Should I get Chris?”

He forced himself to pull it together. One attack was enough for today. “I’m okay. Sorry, it’s really hard to think about that night. But I don’t… I can’t remember anything helpful.”

“It’s okay, Stiles,” Isaac said.

What was happening to the world? Isaac had just said a second nice thing. And now it was turning out that Stiles might have to revise his understanding of the mating bite. He’d spent the past month viewing it as the ultimate betrayal of his trust, but it was looking more and more like Theo actually had half-decent reasons for it. “Have you guys sensed him at all? Through the pack bond?”

They all looked at each other, and then Boyd said, “I haven’t. Peter said he must be blocking us somehow.”

That wasn’t surprising. Theo was extremely good at controlling the information he gave away. And it wasn’t like he’d ever been forthcoming with Stiles, his sorta boyfriend and later his _mate_ —quite the opposite. Any time Stiles asked about his past or even where they were in Astral, Theo subjected him to that same calculating stare he’d used the day they met—the one that seriously made you think the werewolf was deciding whether or not to rip your throat out.  

Of course, now that he knew the truth, Theo probably was deciding if he should kill Stiles when they first met. Theo had come down there looking for his murdered pack-mates. Lori and Brett may well have been used to lure him into Eichen. And who does he find but Stiles—a human omega, AKA werewolf crack, who practically lay down and spread his legs the moment they met. It must have seemed like he’d been gift-wrapped. Given the givens, Stiles could not accuse Theo of being overly paranoid. Even Peter had been more suspicious of him.

The door to the “armory” opened and Jordan came out wearing what looked like a tactical vest. “Hey Stiles, see if this fits.” The deputy looked up. “Everything okay?”

Stiles made a tiny shake of his head—they could save the latest Theo tidbit for later. “Yeah, I’m fine. What do you need?”

Jordan blinked like he was confused by Stiles’ pretty blatant lie, but shook it off. “Try this on.” He held out a vest similar to the one he was wearing.

“Is that like a bullet-proof vest?”

“It’s similar—the Kevlar has been reinforced to protect against werewolf claws. They’re not foolproof, especially against Alphas, but they offer some protection to vital organs. I’ve got one for Lydia as well.”

Stiles put the vest on. “It’s lighter than I thought.”

“These are really top-of-the line. The ones the department issues feel like they’re made of lead.”

Chris came out then: he was wearing his own vest, which came equipped with what looked like a quiver for about a dozen arrows—presumably to go with the _fucking crossbow_ he was carrying. Holy shit did he look like a badass.

“Wow—when can I get one of those?”

“When you’ve been trained and can reliably hit a target,” Chris answered. “In the meantime I have this for you.” He held out a black stick, about seven inches long. “This is a military-grade Taser, modified for use against werewolves. It’s designed to be pressure-sensitive, so to use it, you just jam it into your target and squeeze the grip. It will bring down most betas, and cause an Alpha to back off. It’s also equipped with a sonic emitter.” Chris showed him the button on the side. “Activating it will cause significant discomfort to any werewolves within about a five-meter radius.”

“Discomfort is one word for it,” Isaac said.

“They work,” Boyd added.

“Oh yeah,” Erica agreed.

Chris made his wry smile at them. “You’re right handed, so you keep it in the holder on the left side of the vest, here.” Chris showed him the strap and watched him slip it in. “That way you can access it quickly in an emergency. Show me how you pull it out.”

Stiles stepped back, narrowly avoiding falling over the coffee table, and moved to a part of the room with slightly more space. He practiced a few times drawing the Taser and replacing it. He noticed that both Chris and Jordan were carrying the same one, which made him feel more like a Law Enforcement Professional instead of a helpless little omega.

“It only fires once,” Chris continued. “There are three extra charges stored in the vest here.” He showed him the compartment, and demonstrated how to open the Taser and replace the cartridge. It was well-designed and virtually idiot-proof, and Stiles got it on his first try, though even with practice he couldn’t see doing it in less than twenty seconds—and that was under perfect conditions, not under attack by werewolf death eaters. “Obviously, you won’t have time to do this during an actual fight,” Chris read his thought. “So make sure you maximize your effect with the weapon.”

“Is there a best place to target?” Stiles asked.

“Nuts are always a safe bet,” Erica said.

Chris smiled. “Anywhere on the torso will disable a beta wolf. The leg is actually a better bet with an Alpha. It will slow them down, buy you time to run away or for Erica or someone else to come to your defense.”

Someone who could actually fight--got it.

He hadn’t missed that in addition to the Taser, both Chris and Jordan’s vests were equipped with rear straps each holding two handguns. Given that he’d been targeted by werewolf fanatics and possibly a serial killer, it would probably be a good idea to sign up for a class on basic firearm use.

“So consider the vest mandatory any time you’re on the job from now on. It’s not just you—I have one here for Lydia too. As Peter said, we’re on full alert until we have a resolution.” There was that word again: resolution. Did Chris mean the death of all their enemies or was there some other way to “resolve” matters with a zealot like Deucalion? “Erica is trained in personal protection—that’s why I assigned her to you. It’s not just work hours now: _you do not go anywhere without her, unless you’re with me or Peter—is that clear, omega_?”  

“Yes Alpha,” he gasped as the order seemed to burrow its way into his bone marrow.

“Don’t worry, partner, I got you covered,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said, wishing it could convey even a tenth of how grateful he was to her.

“Good boy,” Chris said. “I’m going to take this vest out to Lydia.”

“Okay boss,” Boyd said. “Peter wanted us to move the rest of the stuff for the investigation down here—we’ll get started on that.”

Chris smiled, obviously amused by his mate’s irritation at having his home overrun with crime boards and police folders.

Chris left, Boyd and Isaac following. Something occurred to Stiles. “Hey Jordan, do you think you could help me find some place to learn to use a gun properly? I’m feeling a little, you know, underarmed for going up against the Alpha pack.”

“The shooting range near my house offers a firearm safety course, but I’d be happy to teach you myself. I’m actually certified to teach CQC, close quarters combat, if you’d like to learn some self-defense.”

“It’s actually SOP for a lot of a protection details,” Erica said. “You train with your principal on how to respond to different scenarios, so you’re always in sync.”

“That kind of makes me sound like the President—or maybe the First Omega, which is kind of crazy when you think about it, but uh, anything that helps keep you safe, obviously I’ll do it.”

“It’s okay Stiles, I get it,” Erica said. “We’re partners—I protect you but I’m not your bodyguard. And this isn’t about dynamic, I swear. But you’re human and a medium—you need protection.”

“Stiles! Fuck, Stiles!!!!” Stiles swung around, suddenly realizing someone had been yelling for him.

“What?” he cried. There wasn’t anyone there but Erica and Jordan, who were both standing right next to him and definitely not yelling.

“Stiles, please. Look!” He knew that voice, only it wasn’t possible….

“Marco?” He blinked and slowly the figure of Marco shimmered into view near his front door.

“Thank god. I’ve been trying to get to you for an hour, but I couldn’t get close because of the nul. Stiles, Ennis knows. He was at the preserve earlier today and somehow he recognized your scent. He’s coming for you.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffhanger and I really am sorry!

“Stiles, what’s happening?” Erica demanded.

“It’s Marco, he’s here.”

“Marco the murder vic?” Jordan asked.

Erica went still. “It’s Peter—something’s happening.”

“I’m telling you it’s Ennis!” Marco shouted.

Erica had her phone out. “Fuck, Chris answer!” She tried another number. “No one’s answering.”

“Cell phone jammers,” Jordan said after examining his phone. Stiles felt a moment of surprise that Ennis Marks would use a cell phone jammer, but there was no time to puzzle it out. Erica opened the door. Boyd and Isaac came running through the front gate; obviously they’d felt the same thing through the pack bonds.

“Peter,” Isaac said.

Marco shouted, “I know where they are.”

“The ghost—Marco—he can lead us,” Stiles said.

Boyd looked like he wanted to argue, but Erica said, “I can feel him. Marco’s here. We need to follow him.” Boyd nodded and Erica barked at Stiles, “Stay close to me!”

Marco started walking—and it did look exactly like walking not some ghostly floating—towards the back of the garden that Stiles hadn’t bothered to explore yet. There was a gate which led behind the property. The townhouse was actually at the eastern edge of the city and backed up on a sizeable natural area so there was just a road, and then the woods started.

Once they crossed though, Isaac took a deep sniff. “Chris didn’t go this way.”

“Find him,” Boyd ordered. Isaac took off towards the intersection while Marco thankfully led them to an actual path through the wood. Stiles wasn’t sure if it was some habit left over from when he was alive, consideration for his living followers, or if his ghostly essence really couldn’t just pass through trees and brush.

Unluckily for Stiles, Marco did not slow down when they reached a pretty steep hill. “They’re close,” Boyd said, sprinting ahead of Stiles, who needed to add ‘getting in shape so he could run more than a city block’ to his to-do list, along with ‘learn to use a gun,’ ‘learn self-defense,’ ‘learn to cook,’ and ‘get therapy.’

Over the top of the hill, there was a clearing. Peter and Jackson were positioned protectively around Lydia, fighting off six wolves, betas from their eyes, while Ennis Marks stood watching, arms crossed, looking like a sneering muscle-bound thug straight out of central casting.

“Guard Stiles,” Boyd ordered Erica and entered the fight.

Jordan pulled his gun. “Beacon Hills Police. Stand down immediately.”

Ennis ignored the deputy, and moved towards Stiles and Erica. Somewhat to Stiles’ surprise, Parrish didn’t bother with more warnings, but started firing at the werewolf.

Which was when Stiles received a helpful, if poorly timed lesson in the raw power of an Alpha werewolf. The deputy emptied an entire clip into the Alpha’s chest, and it barely slowed Ennis down.

“Leave him. Shoot the betas,” Peter ordered, “Aim for the knees.” Impressively fast, Jordan had replaced his clip and started trying to position himself to actually shoot Ennis’ betas, but was obviously finding it hard to get off a shot without hitting Peter or Jackson. “Don’t worry about me and Jackson, just don’t hit Lydia,” Peter growled.

Stiles heard the shots, but he couldn’t look to see what had happened. Ennis was approaching them fast: Erica dropped her claws and wolfed out, preparing to face the Alpha on her own.

“Stay behind me!” she ordered.  

Stiles obeyed and drew the Taser, but he wasn’t surprised that after a quick exchange of blows, Ennis grabbed Erica and lifted her overhead and hurled her across the clearing. Stiles tried to jam the Taser into the Alpha’s gut, but Ennis swatted it away as easily as he did Erica’s attack.

He saw that Peter had thrown off two of the betas and was moving for them, but he was too far to save him.

Ennis knew it too. He smiled and grabbed Stiles’ throat and lifted him off the ground. It did feel like time slowed, so that cliché was accurate, but Stiles wouldn’t have said anything pithy or clever entered his head beyond “eeergh!”

Which was when his entire body turned to ice—literally it was as if there was liquid nitrogen flowing through his arteries--and without any will on his part, his own arm shot out and _into_ Ennis’ chest, grasping something wet and hot and _pulsing_ , and then ripping it out. The werewolf stood for a second and then tipped forward, crushing Stiles under his bulk.

Fuck, Ennis was heavy—it wasn’t a particularly heroic or profound thought to have after apparently escaping a grisly death, but then again, Ennis Marks was really fucking heavy.

In his own brain, he was just lying there, smushed under the Mack truck of werewolves waiting to be rescued. His body apparently had a different idea. He felt another flood of ice and then he, _Stiles_ , was lifting Ennis’ body off of himself _and throwing it_. Similarly without contribution from his own will, he got to his feet, roared, and held out the pulsing bloody mass of Ennis’ heart in triumph.

Which just no. _All the no_. That was disgusting. Seriously, who did shit like that? He was going to be scarred for life.

His brain fully recognized the incredible unlikeliness that he would ever touch any heart, werewolf or human, let alone rip one out of a living body, but nonetheless he was now crushing said heart _in his fist_ and bringing it towards his mouth like he might rip into it with his teeth.

That was the final straw for him to start protesting whatever this was that was possessing him.

Next thing, Peter was in front of him; his shirt and claws were covered in blood and his eyes were glowing. “That was very impressive, little Alpha, and don’t think we’re not grateful. I would be willing to negotiate for your membership in this pack, but you must release Stiles now.”

He wanted to cry out, “I am Stiles,” but he could feel his body seething; it really, really wanted to bite into that stupid revolting heart.

Erica staggered towards him, clutching a gash in her side. “Marco, let Stiles go, please.”

“You’re my mate.” The words came out of his mouth but he definitely didn’t say them.

“I know, I feel it too, but you have to let Stiles go.”

“I promise he won’t forgive you if you bite into that heart. Stiles really hates blood.” Lydia. Thank god she was alright. More than anything he just wanted to hug her and somehow moved in that direction. He was vaguely surprised that the motion led to an explosion of growls from Peter, Jackson, and even Boyd.

“That’s far enough,” Peter said. “You’re not coming near one of our humans until you stand down. Stiles, if you can hear me, _expel the ghost now, omega_.” Before he could ask _what ghost_ , he felt like his veins were being torn out with red hot pincers. In fairness, that was probably an exaggeration, but it still felt horrible and _wrong,_ like nerves were firing making him feel a cold that somehow burned at the same time in places where you shouldn’t feel anything, like the spot behind your heart, or inside your eyeballs.

Next thing he was lying on the ground, shivering so hard he thought he’d crack a tooth.

“He’s freezing.” Lydia was crouched over him, rubbing his hands. Peter and Boyd pulled off their jackets and helped Lydia pile them on, trying to get him warm again. Peter reached under his shirt to place his palm on his stomach. “Is it working?” Lydia asked.

“No.” Peter did not look pleased. Stiles realized Peter was trying to take his pain.

“Jordan,” Lydia said, “Now might be a good time for the hell hound to send that ghost packing.”

“Now wait a minute!” Erica snapped. “He just saved my life and Stiles’. And anyway he’s my mate.”

“You can’t be mated to a ghost,” Lydia responded.

“Who the fuck says?” Erica shouted.

“Ladies, now is not the time,” Peter warned.

“We’re too exposed here,” Boyd said.

“Believe me, I know,” Peter said. “Parrish, Boyd, Jackson, fan out, and stay alert. I would not be surprised if this is just round one. Erica, status?”

“I can fight.”

Which was true only because Erica was a living illustration of the phrase, _go down fighting_. Also, _fight til your last breath_. Even Stiles could feel she was hurt.

“Does anyone know where Chris is by any chance?”

“The nul?” Marco answered. “He took off after something.”

“Of course he did,” Peter said. “Marco is it? I’d very much like to know how you just took down an Alpha werewolf using the body of a human omega.”

Stiles tried to sit up, but he felt like he’d lost every last milligram of strength. Lydia seemed to read it, because she helped prop him up on her lap. Marco was just standing there: he looked way more corporeal than he had in the Preserve, or even when he showed up at the house just now. Also, apparently everyone could see and hear him now.

Maybe because he was sporting bright red Alpha eyes: fuck, Marco had killed Ennis. “Holy shit, you’re an Alpha,” he tried to say, but his throat felt like he’d gargled shards of glass. Every part of him was starting to feel like the time he was laid out by the flu freshman year.

“Peter, I think he needs a doctor,” Lydia said.

“What he needs is me.”

Of course. Just his fucking luck. It was Theo.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swapped out the old Argent code, "we hunt those who hunt us," for Allison's revised code in season three, which I always liked and which definitely fit better. 
> 
> I can't say it enough: I really appreciate the comments. Each one is like this little spark of joy cheering up my day. It's a good reminder to leave more comments myself. 
> 
> I'd also like to give a special shout-out to the people who have been following the story since the beginning and letting me know their responses--it's helped more than I could have imagined and I think made the story stronger. 
> 
> We are winding down. I estimate there will be six chapters left, four of which are written. Hopefully I'll be able to get the final two hammered out over the next few days and will keep to what I now realize was a rather ambitious posting schedule, but even if not, I think the main mysteries should be resolved and the finale is just a few wrap-up scenes. 
> 
> I did up a cover for the story which is posted on my tumblr: [Astralogy](http://liliaford.tumblr.com/post/171597513016/so-i-have-been-posting-a-new-fic-on-ao3-entitled/).
> 
> So here goes nothing. : )

“Don’t hurt Peter,” Stiles tried to cry, but everything just hurt too much.

He could hear the snick as claws released all around him. “Everyone keep your distance. Now,” Peter warned. “And while I’m sure you’re all enjoying the melodrama, stay alert. Boyd, keep trying Chris.”

“Someone was using cell phone jammers near the house,” Jordan said.

“Of course they were,” Peter said impatiently. “ _Ghost_ , why don’t you make yourself useful and scout around please.” Stiles wanted to laugh at the irritation in Peter’s tone that his pack of misfit toys now included an unusually resourceful ghost. “Mr. Raeken, how nice of you to join us. Are you ready to submit to me?”

“I’ll pass. Now back off my mate.” It was that flat, calm tone he’d used with Brunski the day they met.

Peter was no Brunski—to say the least—but Stiles could tell he was being cautious. “Your enemies are closing in, pup. And you’re not looking particularly well. You can’t protect him or yourself. Bare your neck to me, and we stand with you. No one else is going to help you.”

“Theo, don’t be an idiot,” Lydia snapped. “We know your pack is dead, we know someone hunted them down one by one. Thanks to Stiles, you can have a new one.”

“You guys seem to be forgetting that I’m an Alpha.”

“So am I,” Peter said. “And until yesterday I served under my sister and I promise you it did not make me any less of an Alpha. Thanks to _your_ enemies, I was forced to form my own pack. It’s possible you could kill me, especially since I won’t kill you, but that won’t get you a single beta. It will however destroy this pack, and wipe out all the power you’ve been drawing on so promiscuously.”

“Theo, Stiles cares about you.” Lydia sounded like she was crying. “He tries to deny it, but he still does. You haven’t lost him. But if you attack this pack, he won’t forgive you—not this time. If you care about him, if you want a real relationship with your mate, you need to listen.”

“Peter, I can scent wolfsbane on him,” Jackson said.

Stiles tried to say they’d been poisoning him, but instead he just choked. Peter took a deep sniff. “It’s yellow. Surround the humans!” Fuck, his tone was urgent. Peter gently laid Stiles down on the ground and moved away. “Help your mate, Theo, but I hope you’re prepared to fight whatever you’ve brought down on the rest of us.” He could see Peter’s claws dropping.

“Lydia, get away from him,” Jackson shouted.

“No,” she said firmly. “I’m not leaving Stiles—are you going to hurt me, Theo?”

Now that Theo came closer, Stiles could see why Peter said he didn’t look good. He was pale and sweating despite the chill.

“What happened?” he asked Lydia.

“There’s a ghost—Marco. Ennis Marks shot him back in July. Ennis was about to kill Stiles and somehow Marco invaded his body and used it to rip out Ennis’ heart. But when Stiles forced the ghost out of his body, it’s like he went into shock.”

“You don’t sound as angry as I thought you would,” Theo said, as he knelt down and picked Stiles up.

“You’re pack now,” she said. “I’ll overlook everything that happened at Eichen so long as you don’t hurt anyone or disregard Stiles’ consent again.”

“Wow, generous of you.” Theo nestled into the mating bite, and reached under Stiles’ shirt and started taking his pain, which for some reason worked. “Jesus, someone marked you up,” Theo growled. “Argent, who else.”

“Don’t…” Stiles choked. “Don’t be angry.”

Theo rolled his eyes. “No exclusivity. I haven’t forgotten—you only told me a thousand times.”

“Theo please,” Stiles pleaded. “I need to, I’m sorry….” It felt like something was forcing him because he couldn’t seem to stop himself from leaning over and nipping lightly at Theo’s neck. He shuddered as warmth finally began flooding him. “Sorry,” he practically sobbed. “I don’t know why….” He hadn’t forgotten how Theo had reacted when he tried to touch his neck the day they met.

“Easy babe,” Theo murmured in his ear. “It’s okay.”

“Theo, we need to know who’s been killing off your pack,” Lydia said.

“I have a pack now?-cool.” He really did sound amused.

“Tracy, Corey, Josh—Stiles figured out who they were, just today.”

“Clever. Why don’t you ask your boss, _Christopher Argent_ , who’s been killing them?”

“What do you mean?” Lydia demanded.

“I think I know,” Peter said. “But you’re a fool if you think Chris had anything to do with this, pup. Unfortunately his father is another story.” In a low voice he said, “Nothing stupid here, children. Gerard is at least as dangerous as Chris. _Follow my lead_.” Peter put the full strength of his Alpha power behind the command. Stiles bared his neck instinctively, though Theo just rolled his eyes.

There was a whooshing sound and Theo and all the wolves were hit by little darts. Theo flicked it out, but Stiles could see ugly blue threads flowing out from the already healed prick.

He could feel the chill penetrate through the pack bond. Erica collapsed, while Jackson staggered to his knees and Boyd gripped a tree to stay on his feet.

Stiles struggled to sit up fully. A group of men wearing facemasks and full tactical gear were approaching the clearing led by the old guy who’d questioned him, Chris’ father.

“Why if it isn’t my son-in-law.”

“Gerard, what an unpleasant surprise,” Peter replied. “What brings you to Beacon Hills?”

“What else: a prisoner escaped from Eichen House Friday night. We were certain he’d seek out his mate.”

“Well, as you can see, we _were_ in the midst of negotiating Mr. Raeken’s surrender,” Peter lied almost as smoothly as Theo. “But we keep getting interrupted by these tiresome attacks. First by a member of the Alpha pack and now you.”

“Oh, I would never attack PsyCrime, son. I’m just trying to prevent any misunderstandings. My people have orders to shoot if anyone does anything foolish. Please instruct Miss Martin to move behind her mate, the rest of you stand next to him. I’d prefer to have all of you between me and the banshee.”

“Do it, Lydia,” Peter ordered.

Lydia squeezed Stiles’ hand and went and stood behind Jackson. “Deputy, your turn. Please remove your weapons, slowly, and toss them towards me.”

Jordan tossed his first handgun and then unsnapped the second from behind his back and tossed it and the Taser towards Gerard.

“Ankle holster too,” Gerard said.

“Of course,” Jordan said, and Stiles had to hand it to the deputy because he sounded utterly sincere, though Stiles knew in his bones Jordan would have held back that gun if he could.

“Good man. Now cuff him,” Gerard ordered. One of the henchmen moved forward and cuffed Parrish’ hands behind his back and pushed him to his knees. “I wouldn’t want a member of Beacon Hills’ finest to be shot due to a misunderstanding. The same goes for the Hale pack’s newest betas, Peter. I hope the wolves understand that there is more than enough yellow wolfsbane in their systems to prevent them from healing. It won’t kill you or young Mr. Raeken here, but it will kill the rest of them.”

Gerard was smiling coldly, but Stiles couldn’t work up any of his usual scorn towards him, just a bone-deep dread. This, _this_ was what cruelty looked like. All those absences that haunted him were suddenly replaced with this cold, calculating presence, who hunted down a terrified Tracy, who shot Lori while she begged, murdered Brett while he desperately tried to save his sister. Theo’s pack. His pack too, sort of. Next to Gerard Argent, Valack was as impressive as a fifth grade bully.

Theo’s expression was as noncommittal as it always was, but Stiles could feel his mate’s rage--and his fear. Stiles probably would have been mindless from terror himself but for Peter’s attitude. But while the Alpha was definitely being cautious, he wasn’t _afraid_. Stiles clung to it like a lifeline.

“They understand now,” Peter said. “And since this is quite uncomfortable, why don’t you get to the point.”

Gerard smirked and said, “All in good time. I have to admit I was surprised you’d make the omega part of the Hale pack—did you explain to your sister that he brought along a psychotic Alpha murderer for a mate?”

Stiles swallowed. Gerard didn’t realize that they were all part of Peter’s pack, which meant the Alpha might be throwing off the wolfsbane faster than Gerard calculated. It was a faint hope, but it was something.

“Well, I did marry your son, so it’s safe to say Talia has learned to accommodate my taste for riff-raff.”

Gerard might despise Chris, but he _did not_ like hearing that, so ten points to Peter. “Humph. Well, I’m afraid you and my son will have to find another omega to warm your bed. How typical, when you two finally claim one, you choose Eichen House’s biggest whore.”

“Dude, no one was paying me!” Stiles couldn’t help bursting out. “What’s with you Alphas and the slut-shaming. Seriously, you need to get the stick out of your ass.”

“I’ll look forward to teaching you some manners, omega,” Gerard said.

“Good luck,” he shouted, his bravado on overdrive.

“Are you lusting after teenaged omegas now, Gerard? I’m not sure your Senate campaign can withstand that kind of scandal.” Fuck, Peter was really good at this.

“I assume you’re using insults as a delaying tactic in the hopes that my son will come to your rescue, but it won’t work. My men are keeping Christopher safe until we’re finished.” Peter’s showed almost no reaction to this—just a twitch of the eyebrow but Gerard caught it. “I can’t blame you for trying, but the game is up. As you said, this is getting uncomfortable. So we’ll get to the point. The omega is coming with me.”

“The hell he is,” Theo snarled.

“Oh, but you haven’t heard my deal yet, son. Stiles comes with me, as a guarantee for your good behavior, and in return _you_ live free. You’ll be stronger than ever thanks to the Hale pack; I’ll even look the other way if you choose to continue your former…line of business. You’ll be able to see your mate whenever you want in Astral, and so long as you complete the occasional task for me, beginning with finishing the job that got interrupted the other night, the omega can live as a guest in a proper house, surrounded by every comfort. If you disobey, he goes back to Eichen and will be subject to as many non-lethal punishments as their staff can come up with. So there’s your choice: the omega lives safely and comfortably in my custody and everyone here walks away safe; or I kill everyone and still take him.”

Just the words caused a worse chill than Marco invading his body. Of course Theo would agree—it would give him everything he wanted.

Only that’s not what happened. Theo flashed his eyes. “Fuck you. If you want me that badly, I’ll go back to Eichen, but leave Stiles out of this.” He felt a strange rush of warmth that seemed to drive out the last traces of Marco’s invasion. His eyes started burning: Theo hadn’t lied. Stiles wasn’t sure how he knew, but he was positive Theo told the truth when he refused to sacrifice Stiles for his own freedom. Stiles stared at him in shock but Theo just rolled his eyes, as if to say _what the fuck did you expect_?

Stiles snorted— _I expected you to drop me like a stinking hot turd, asshole_.

“Very noble,” Gerard laughed, “but I’m afraid your inadvertently joining the Hale pack has made that impossible. I don’t have a facility that can hold you.”

He realized Peter was watching both of them too, somehow reading what was happening. Peter and Theo looked at each other, communicating something that Stiles couldn’t interpret.

“Now,” Gerard was apparently winding down. “All of you just stay calm and we will take ourselves off.” He nodded and one of his henchmen moved towards Stiles.

Weirdly he heard Peter shout, “Erica no,” before he even saw her move. She leapt for the guy, only to take a bullet in the chest, and collapse next to him. “No one move!” Peter ordered.

“If anyone else moves, shoot them all except for the omega,” Gerard said. Fuck, the werewolves might survive, but Lydia and Parrish wouldn’t.

“Let me help her, Gerard, and _no one else will interfere_ ,” Peter said making it a full Alpha command.

“The omega first,” Gerard ordered. Peter nodded, and the henchman grabbed Stiles and pulled him to his feet. “ _Don’t struggle, omega_ ,” Gerard snapped in the Alpha tone.

“Do it, Stiles,” Peter ordered, “Stay where you are, Theo.” Stiles caught another glance between them, not as obvious as a wink, but similar. He could only pray Peter had something up his sleeve. The henchman dragged him over to Gerard, who gripped his shoulder. Gerard nodded at Peter, who moved slowly, hands raised. Once he was close to Erica, he used the same deliberate movements to grab one of the jackets to put pressure against her wound.

“You seem to have gone to a lot of trouble to secure young Mr. Raeken, Gerard. I admit I’m curious.”

“Are you sure you want to risk your beta?”

“She’ll hold,” Peter said. “But I’d prefer to know who I’ve brought into my pack.”

“Seems like something you should have found out beforehand,” Gerard said.

“It was one of those heat-of-the moment decisions--same as when I bit Chris, in fact.” Peter made a leering wink.

“Animal,” Gerard muttered. “But if you wish, I’ll tell you. Back in the days before your family insisted on exposing the supernatural, my father had an arrangement with a man named Sebastian Valet.”

“Alias _La Bête_? I’ve seen the file the council has on him. He’s suspected of something like sixty murders here and in Europe. I thought your family’s mandate was to protect innocents, Gerard.”

“My father made the same kind of utilitarian calculation that you just made: sacrifice the few for the protection of the many. And the council only knew about the murders in the physical. You see, Valet was that rarest of hybrids, a born werewolf who possessed psychic abilities, specifically an ability to travel in the Astral plane--and kill anyone he found there. That made him an indispensible tool for those tasked with rooting out psychics prone to violence. He was a relentless hunter once he got on someone’s trail. It took time, sometimes weeks and sometimes months, but he could hunt down any psychic in the world, as they all enter Astral easily, often without even realizing. He removed many of the most dangerous for us, for a generous payment of course. Unfortunately, he was greedy and chafed at even the few restrictions we put on him to keep the supernatural from being discovered.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t pleased to discover the Argent secret weapon, that you are all nuls, invulnerable to psychic attack.”

“Quite right, he wasn’t. And we had ways of finding him, psychics of our own that we kept hidden. So five years ago, he approached me with information that he’d met a child in Astral, a boy who had been entering practically since he was born. This boy could shape and control the plane as easily as breathing. Valet was sure that he could be trained to kill in Astral as well. He offered to find the boy in the physical and then hand him over to us in return for leaving him free.”

“This sounds like it’s heading towards a highly edifying sermon on the dangers of overreach,” Peter drawled.

“More than you can imagine. Valet lied. He’d already found the child. Valet was a murderer but he was also a criminal, who was extremely good at spotting potential in young people: he would bite them and force them into his pack.”

“Did this pack include a kanima and a chameleon by any chance?” Peter said.

Gerard looked surprised. “Very good. The Council finally figured it out, did they?”

“Actually it was Chris’s team—turns out they’re excellent at what they do. Shocking, I know.”

Gerard grunted. “Only Theo here knows what those years were like, living with Valet, but eventually all good things must come to an end.” Gerard smiled chillingly. “Predictably, Valet tried to betray us, his handlers. He turned the boy into a werewolf with the plans to kill his own beta and absorb his powers. But the boy had a different plan: with the help of his young packmates, he killed Valet and seized the Alpha power for himself.”

It was strange, but even as he listened to Gerard’s account, which told him more about Theo than he’d found out in the six months they’d been lovers, Stiles could feel at the same time that Peter was doing something, orchestrating something. Everyone was quiet, even Theo, as Gerard poured out his darkest secrets. Weirder, it was like he could feel everyone getting stronger, like they were throwing off the poison, but he didn’t see how.

Peter rolled his eyes. “And I suppose no one guessed that Mr. Raeken would keep his psychic powers once he was turned?”

“The FPMP has methods of tracking down psychics, and we knew he was still out there, it just took us some time to find him.”

“And then you threw him in Eichen house and hunted down his pack and killed them,” Peter said impatiently. “I wish I could say I was surprised at your negotiating strategy, Gerard, but I’m really not. I heard one of them was a girl of fifteen. Your poor Argent code is looking a bit tarnished.”

“All he had to do was perform one little task and they would have been fine.” Gerard sounded furious. For some reason, Peter was goading him. “I warned him if he tried to leave Eichen, I’d kill all of them the same day. Otherwise, I’d take one a month until he’d completed his job.”

“You think I wouldn’t have offed some random psychic to save Corey or Tracy?” Theo snarled. “You didn’t even know what country they were in. Sebastian was a hunter--that’s what he lived for, that and killing people while they begged for their life. It’s not like he trained me: what the fuck do I know about hunting prey? Five days after I became a werewolf, I became an Alpha.”

“Quiet, Theo—you’re getting nothing more _or less_ than what you have coming,” Peter snapped. “I appreciate the history, Gerard. But as you said, my beta here requires medical attention. You’d best be on your way.” Peter was smirking and for some reason Stiles felt in his bones that he would never let Gerard walk away with him. He forced himself to stay calm and alert, ready for when the next shoe dropped. It didn’t take long.

“Well if that’s what you want,” Gerard said and then called towards the trees, “You’re welcome to all but Mr. Raeken.”

“And this, children, is why you _never_ trust a hunter,” Peter said. “Deucalion, _quelle surprise_. All those years you criticized me for fucking one, but you’re actually serving as mop-up crew for an Argent?” Deucalion walked in, flanked by three other people, a tall, fierce-looking woman and two young males, identical twins by the look of it. The woman growled when she saw Ennis’s body.

“Oh right, you two were involved weren’t you, Kali?—ouch.” Peter oozed faux-sounding sympathy. “I don’t know what to say: apparently, poor Ennis was too eager to wait for the rest of you. He attacked us, and tragically has met his end; you’ll be relieved to hear that his betas all survived, but they seem to have run off.”

“So I see,” Deucalion said coldly. “Did you kill him, Peter?”

“Duke, please, a dear old friend like Ennis? Perish the thought. Young Theo here was defending his mate, and you know how it is—accidents happen.” Because hearts got ripped out of bodies every day _by accident_. Stiles almost wanted to laugh at how gratuitously insulting Peter was being.

He could practically see the rage ripple through the group: eyes flared and fangs dropped and holy shit, every one of them was an Alpha. He had to assume Peter knew what he was doing, but otherwise, Stiles couldn’t understand why he was goading their enemies like this.

“I’m going to rip you to shreds, Peter, and then I’m going to tear apart every member of this pack,” the woman, Kali, snarled.

Peter rolled his eyes, like he was embarrassed at such hackneyed threats. “Yes, I’d like to think you’d be brave enough to challenge me when I’d _not_ just been poisoned by yellow wolfsbane, but I suppose one needs to make allowances for fragile Alpha egos.”

Gerard Argent laughed. “You never do stop, do you. I don’t know how Christopher tolerates your lip. But enough is enough. We’ll see ourselves out.” To his men he called, “If anyone attacks Mr. Raeken, kill them. Come, omega.” He grabbed Stiles by the upper arm and started dragging him away, which was when chaos erupted.

There was a whoosh sound and faster than anyone could compute Gerard’s men started collapsing--due to the little darts sticking out of their necks. At the same time, Isaac shot past both twins, slicing their tendons. All the wolves roared. His packmates, far from being incapacitated from wolfsbane poisoning, were all jumping to their feet, even Erica, who staggered up and dropped her claws. Boyd threw himself at Kali, while Jackson and Erica flanked Lydia and Parrish, guarding them. Isaac attacked one of the twins, while the other went for Erica.

“What is this?” Gerard growled.

“Were you trying for dramatic effect, darling?” Peter drawled, as Chris walked into the clearing. Stiles finally understood the phrase “guns blazing,” because Chris was holding a gun in each hand, shooting out the knee-caps of the Alpha pack.

“Sorry about that,” Chris said. “But the ghost you sent out on patrol spotted Deucalion and warned Isaac what was coming. I assumed you’d prefer to keep your powder dry.”

“You’re much more than powder, my love,” Peter said. “Theo, why don’t you make yourself useful—leave Stiles for now. The old bastard wants you too badly to kill him. I promise Chris won’t let his father take him.” With that, Peter launched himself at Deucalion, both of them fighting faster than the eye could see. Theo looked more annoyed than anything, but he made a brief survey of the fight and then took a running leap so he could do a _flip_ over Jackson and Lydia, drawing a claw across the back of one of the twins who was fighting Isaac, to land next to Boyd, so he could thrust a claw into Kali’s thigh.

Ahem. That was pretty badass. Stiles was a little ashamed that he immediately popped a boner, given that everyone around him was fighting for their life. He tried to shake free of Gerard, but next thing he had a knife to his throat. “You seem surprisingly well prepared, Christopher,” Gerard sneered. Stiles struggled again, but for an old guy Gerard Argent was crazy strong.

“Next time you should send more than five men--that was sloppy.”

“Humph. We were trying to keep a low profile.”

Chris gave him a reassuring smile. “You okay, kiddo?” Stiles tried to smile--he definitely felt better with Chris there. Looking at his father, Chris said, “The only sure way to bring down a kanima is with yellow wolfsbane: it was only common prudence to make sure Peter and my team were all dosed with the antidote.”

“So that’s why he kept me talking--he was waiting for the antidote to take effect.”

“I told him the betas would need six minutes,” Chris said.

“I see you’ve put my training to good use,” Gerard bit out.

Chris hid it well, but Stiles could tell he was devastated. “I remember you teaching me that we had an obligation to protect the innocent-- _Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes_. I’ve known for a long time that those were just words for you. I still didn’t want to believe it was you, but Stiles figured out that Corey Bryant and the other victims were part of Raeken’s pack. Two of them were murdered at Eichen--only the FPMP would have that authority. And if you killed them with your own hands there wouldn’t be a ghost, important when you realized there was a powerful medium in Beacon Hills. All of this so you could blackmail a teenager into committing assassinations for you. Lori Talbot was fifteen years old.”

“Killing her was an accident,” Gerard growled.

“That’s a fucking lie,” Stiles exploded. “I saw it, I saw what you did: Brett tried to save her, and then you shot her as she begged for her life.”

Gerard chuckled. “So Dr. Valack was right: you are a level nine--I am confident that you will prove quite useful to the FPMP now that we have that settled.”

Chris shouted a protest as Gerard drew the blade of his knife along Stiles’ cheek, slicing it open. Stiles wanted to scream, but only a rasping sound came out of his mouth. It turned out that he’d discovered his ultimate trigger: hearing the main power behind Eichen House say out loud that he was a level nine. Since he’d arrived at this fucking clearing, he’d mostly kept the fear at bay, but now it swamped him. Next to it, the pain from the cut was nothing.

“You’re growing soft, Christopher. I always taught you that to win, you only have to be more willing to sacrifice your pieces than your opponent.” He pushed Stiles fully in front of himself to prevent Chris from shooting, and spoke into a radio. “They’re in the clearing. Kill everyone except Raeken.”

Stiles tried to drop down, but Gerard had no trouble dragging him away from the clearing. He was so afraid he thought he might pass out, but then he heard a roaring noise that sounded eerily familiar. It got louder and louder, and then he realized: Parrish’s eyes had gone red. He snapped the cuffs holding him and got to his feet.

And then he burst into flame! Holy shit.

All of the fights stalled as people backed away. “What on earth is that?” Deucalion asked.

That, ladies and gentlemen, was a fucking _Hell Hound_ , and it was currently stalking towards him and Gerard.

“Five months ago I was woken by the scream of an innocent being cut down--Lori Talbot,” the hound said in his freaky satan-voice. “This was no ordinary murder. At the time of the first hunter, your family was given a gift so you could protect those who couldn’t protect themselves, to hunt those who preyed on the innocent. But you violated your code and mine. Six young souls sent to wander the wastes until there is justice. Six souls waiting to be avenged.”

Gerard looked panicked and even Chris looked wary. “What is this?” Gerard growled.

The Hell Hound prowled closer. Gerard shoved Stiles at Jordan, who caught him; he assumed he’d burn up in the hellish flames, but though it was warm, it didn’t burn. Jordan or whoever, pushed Stiles into Chris’s arms. Gerard pulled a gun and quickly emptied a clip into the Hound, which had zero effect.

“Now Banshee!” the Hell Hound ordered, and then threw his body protectively over Stiles and Chris.  

Which was when Lydia screamed.


	26. Chapter 26

Scream was far too prosaic a word for the harrowing, unearthly sound that seemed to penetrate every part of himself—every cell, every thought, every memory, like it had existed at every moment of his life, and would do so long after Stiles died and became a ghost himself. Now that he’d heard it, he could never forget it or leave it behind.

When it was over, Gerard’s body was nothing but a desiccated corpse. He saw the ghost rise out of the body, looking perplexed only to cringe in fear as ghosts started coming towards him: Brett, Lori, Lucas, Josh, Corey and Tracy, only they looked nothing like ordinary ghosts, more like demons of rage. Gerard’s ghost took off, chased by the enraged spirits and the Hell Hound, which was a relief, because the ghosts were legit terrifying, and Stiles had no desire to interact with them or the ghost of Gerard Argent. Parrish, aka Cerberus, was welcome to deal with them.

He looked up to see that the werewolves on both sides appeared stunned. Everyone’s ears were bleeding—ugh—and their eyes were so bloodshot they looked like they were bleeding as well—so gross.

Seriously, it was almost as revolting as Ennis’ pulsing heart.  

Whatever Parrish had done had protected him and Chris, which was good since even with the pack bonds, they couldn’t heal like the werewolves.

“You okay, kiddo?”

“Yeah, I think so? Is everyone else…”

Chris checked the gash on his face and seemed to decide it wasn’t life-threatening. “Stay here,” he ordered and then got up, replacing the clip in his gun.

It was probably smart. The Alphas all seemed to be recovering first. Peter and Deucalion staggered to their feet, followed by Theo and then Boyd? Who was sporting red eyes—and not because they were bloodshot? He realized that the figure he’d thought was Kali was actually translucent—Boyd had killed her? The ghost looked choppy and weak, probably because of Chris. But a shadow that he realized must be Ennis joined her and luckily for Stiles, the two spirits did not choose to hang around, since he wasn’t interested in taking their statements any more than Gerard Argent’s.

“Can you guys hear me?” Chris said, keeping his gun trained on Deucalion.

“Barely,” Peter answered. “You alright, darling?”

“We’re both fine—what about the pack?”

Peter paused. “Everyone is accounted for.”

Chris nodded. “Deucalion, I strongly suggest you and your surviving pack withdraw.”

“My mate is more forgiving than I am, Duke,” Peter said. “I’d run now, because even if you can survive Chris’ bullets, you might not manage another banshee scream. You lost two powerful Alphas today due to your hatred of one Alpha teenager. Don’t sacrifice any more.”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve created your own pack,” Deucalion said. “With that little delinquent as a member. The Council will have something to say about this.”

“How about,” Peter said, “I promise to supervise our young Alpha and keep him out of trouble, and you promise to support me with the Council.”

“Why on earth would I do that?” Deucalion said.

“So I don’t tell everyone that Ennis Marks murdered Marco Gutierrez _with a gun_ to keep people from finding out that you’ve been supplying Beacon Hills with Bane. What do you say, Duke? Sound fair?”  

Stiles sent up a prayer that Deucalion would _not_ say, “this isn’t over,” which was sadly ignored by whatever gods inspire cool villains.

“This isn’t over, Peter.”

Peter just pinched his brow, but Chris was too responsible to allow a teachable moment to pass: “One of the earliest lessons my father taught me was that the best way to eliminate a threat is to get someone else to do it for you. For someone who despised anything supernatural, a civil war between bitten and born wolves would feel like the ultimate gift. It’s clear he knew that Ennis murdered Marco Gutierrez--he deliberately copied the details when he murdered Raeken’s pack: what did you think would happen if it became known that your pack was murdering bitten teenagers?”

“It would start a war which would rid us of the bitten once and for all,” Deucalion said coldly. “And hopefully remove the Hale pack while we were at it.”

“It looks to me like trusting Gerard Argent just cost you half of your own pack instead,” Peter said. “But maybe my math is off.”

Luckily, Deucalion seemed to have exhausted his supply of lame villain comebacks, which was good, because Stiles didn’t think he could take any more. As soon as he and the twins made their retreat, Chris and Peter exchanged one of their silent conversations and Chris went to where Isaac was laid out, while Peter checked on Erica. “Go to your mate, but stay alert,” Peter told Theo.

Stiles could practically taste Theo’s wariness, but he did come over. “You okay?” Theo asked.

“You’re not going to hurt anyone, are you?”

Theo smirked but answered, “Not today.”

“Then I’m okay.” Theo got down on the ground next to him and checked the gash on his face. “Please say I won’t need stitches!” Stiles shuddered at the thought of hitting an emergency room; three years at Eichen House had done nothing to cure his hatred of needles.

“It’s fine--I assume your boss keeps a supply of Neosporin and some butterfly bandages handy.” Theo checked his ears next.

“Are they bleeding?” Stiles whimpered.

“No, they’re fine too. Anything hurt?”

“I feel like I got hit with the flu and ebola at the same time, but no injuries that I can tell. What about you?”

“I’m good.”

“Theo….”

“I’m good.” There was no way to know if that was true, but Stiles supposed he couldn’t really blame Theo for not wanting to admit to any weakness in front of his new pack.

And that was the key, Stiles realized. Right this second, Theo was pack, but that wouldn’t necessarily last. Some of it clearly depended on Peter and how he chose to handle his new Alpha. Stiles could only hope that Peter knew what he was doing with Theo, because that was one relationship Stiles couldn’t influence; even if he could, it wouldn’t help. Both Alphas had to want this to work, to put in the effort and compromise necessary.

But that didn’t mean he had no role to play here, in his position as the pack’s _omega Wan Kenobi_. No one else had Stiles’ motive to make Theo a part of this pack: partly for selfish reasons, since in the long run it would be very hard for him to stay in the pack if Theo really objected, but also for unselfish reasons, because this was the best outcome for everyone. Theo was strong; they might well have lost people today if he hadn’t joined the fight. And maybe with a stable pack, and mentors who weren’t mass murderers, Theo could actually turn into a half-way decent person—at least as much as the other misfit toys Chris had amassed. Stiles had to hope, since no matter what, they were bound together for the rest of their lives.

And he couldn’t lie to himself. He felt the bond. And it wasn’t just werewolf mating mojo. Lydia was right: he had feelings for Theo, ones he hadn’t been willing to deal with. Up til now their relationship had been dominated by Eichen and all the shit that went down there, but just thinking that maybe they could start fresh….

He felt a rush of an unfamiliar emotion: he _wanted_ it. It might not be fighting the Alpha pack or Gerard Argent, but he could fight for himself too, right? It felt like yet another of his miracle insights: He _deserved_ a second chance, and Theo was part of that.

“Help me up,” Stiles said. Theo raised his eyebrows and Stiles said, “Time to meet the pack.”

Theo just shrugged, which was better than saying _fuck no_. Baby steps. Stiles was far from steady so he leaned on Theo.

Lydia was kneeling on the ground, looking lost, which was extremely out of character. Jackson was standing over her, claws out, like he thought the fight might start up again any second. Which was actually fair: from the look of it, Jackson was the only beta in fighting shape, even though his ears were still oozing blood and there were gashes on his legs and chest, none of which had healed.

“That’s far enough,” he growled, his voice too loud. Stiles couldn’t really blame him.

“You guys okay?” he asked.

Lydia swallowed, making a heroic effort to pull it together. “I think so.”

Okay, so time for some pack-building. “Uh, Theo, you obviously know Lydia, and this is Jackson, her mate. Jackson, you probably figured out this is Theo, uh, my mate.” Theo’s head snapped over when he used the word “mate,” so maybe Stiles’ attempt to channel his inner omega Wan Kenobi was actually working.

“I don’t think he can hear you,” Lydia said, sounding more like herself.

“Well, that was some scream,” Stiles said. “Thanks for saving me by the way.”

Lydia blanched—obviously not comfortable with killing people with just her voice. “You’re welcome. Thank you for taking out Ennis Marks. You were just in time.”

It was Stiles’ turn to wince. His hand was still caked with blood and… matter. Yuck. He was going to have nightmares for months about that fucking heart. “I’m pretty sure that was Marco, but, uh, you’re welcome too.”

They continued on their little tour to where Boyd was applying pressure to a wound in Erica’s stomach. “Shit, Erica.” He dropped down, and saw that both her gut and her chest had been ripped open.

“Pain’s bad, she’s not healing,” Boyd said.

Stiles was afraid he’d start crying, but an instinct reminded him that now was not the time to be the pathetic little omega, not when his partner needed him. He turned to Theo. “Can you help her? Please,” he begged. Theo did another of his shrugs but got down on one knee so he could grab her arm. Theo showed zero reaction, but from the saturated black of the lines flowing up his veins, the pain was really bad.

“God,” she cried, “Okay, that’s….Thank you.” It looked like at least some of the wounds were closing.

“Jesus, Erica,” Stiles said. “Are you okay?”

“Hanging in there—what about you?” Erica gasped.

“I’m good—just this dumb scratch on my face. That was some seriously epic bodyguarding—facing off against Ennis and Chris’ lunatic dad!”

“Is Marco….?”

“I don’t think he can get close with Chris here, but I promise I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

“Stiles, he’s my mate,” she sobbed. “He’s my mate, and Ennis killed him before I ever met him.”

“You found him. And I’m pretty sure he just saved all of our asses. The dude killed Ennis—so that is one powerful ghost. I don’t think he is going anywhere, and since I am like the greatest medium in the history of humanity, I think between the three of us, we are going to make this work.”

“Promise?” she murmured.

“I swear to god, Erica. Anything.” She grabbed for his hand, but she was losing consciousness.

“Fuck, Erica….” He lost his battle against the tears. Theo’s grip on his arm tightened, and he realized Peter had come to check on her.

“Can you get her back to the house?” Peter asked Boyd.

“I got it,” Boyd said, lifting her up like she weighed nothing. To Theo, Boyd said, “Thanks for backing me against Kali—and not killing her yourself.” He flashed his newly red eyes—which whoa, did that look _badass_ \--and then started running so fast Stiles could barely track him.

“Is she going to be okay?” Stiles asked shakily.

Peter had an expression that Stiles was beginning to associate with the Alpha’s focus on the pack bonds. “She’s going to be fine, promise.”

“What about Isaac?”

“He’s hurt,” Peter said gently. “He’ll live, but Ethan tried to kill him and he nearly succeeded.”

Chris came over then. “You’re both on your feet, good,” he said. “I’ve called an ambulance for Isaac. They said they’re seven minutes out. I told them to meet us at the road.”

Stiles blushed sharply, but figured there was no time like the present. “Uh, Chris, I think you met before, but this is my mate, Theo--Theo, this is Chris, uh, my boss, and Peter’s mate.” He left out the ‘lover’ part—time and place, etc.

Chris nodded. “Raeken.”

“Argent.”

“Thank you for helping us,” Chris said.

Theo just stared at him: it wasn’t posturing, but he also wasn’t showing anything that could be construed as submission. And holy shit, watching the two of them stare each other down was as good as he’d imagined, and well on its way to producing another profoundly inappropriate boner. Theo caught it, since of course he did. Stiles could only shrug apologetically. Peter raised his eyebrows as if to say, _Really, Stiles?_

Thankfully Peter squelched the asshole comments for once, and turned to his own mate instead. “How do you not have a scratch?” he asked, kissing Chris on the mouth.

“Jordan protected us,” Chris said. “Somebody should find him.”

“One thing at a time, darling. He took six bullets to the chest without even blinking. I very much doubt there is anything in these woods that can hurt him.”

Chris whistled. “Meanwhile, we have a dead senator on our hands.”

“Are you okay?” Stiles couldn’t help asking. It didn’t feel right saying he was sorry for his loss, but monster or not, Gerard was Chris’ dad.

Chris made a small nod at Theo and then put his hand on Stiles’ cheek. “Thanks for asking, sweetheart. I’m fine—I haven’t had a relationship with my father in years.”

Stiles could feel Theo stiffen next to him, but at least he didn’t growl. Stiles squeezed Theo’s hand and then went up on his toes so he could kiss Chris’ cheek. “Thanks for saving us.”

“You’re welcome, but I’m pretty sure that was a pack effort.”

“It was indeed,” Peter quipped. “You missed the best part, which was Stiles here ripping Ennis Marks’ beating heart from his body—you were magnificent, princess.”

Stiles blanched, suddenly worried him might puke up the peperoni pizza from earlier. “That was Marco, not me.”

“He couldn’t have done it without you, sweet.” Peter flashed his eyes at Theo and then moved closer. “Thank you for trusting me earlier. I would never have let him take you.”

Stiles could feel the tears start up again. He didn’t know how to put into words what that sense of trust meant to him—just that it was _everything_. “I know,” he sniffled.

Peter kissed his forehead. There was a tiny growl from Theo, which Peter oddly chose to ignore, but which Stiles wasn’t going to tolerate. He jammed his elbow into his mate’s side—except of course instead of hurting Theo, it made him yelp.

Theo smirked, but he grabbed Stiles’ arm and began taking his pain. Weirdly, there seemed to be a lot—more than he’d realized. Fuck, he was dizzy.

“We should get you home, sweet,” Peter said. To Theo he said coolly, “Chris and I need to take care of Isaac. Can I count on you to make sure the rest of the pack gets home safely? Jackson’s on his feet, but he’s hiding how badly he’s been hurt.”

“Isaac and I took out as many of Gerard’s perimeter guard as we could find,” Chris added. “But there may be more lurking in the woods. They’ll be out for revenge.” Stiles opened his mouth, but Peter made a small shake of his head. Stiles understood: this wasn’t something he could promise. Theo had to speak for himself.

It was probably the least dickish he’d ever seen Peter—and to Theo of all people. Stiles would have assumed he’d be shutting down his rogue Alpha, humiliating him, making Theo feel his authority, but Peter was treating him like a partner. The only other person he treated that way was Boyd. Stiles couldn’t figure it out.

“What do you say, pup?”

Stiles closed his eyes, forcing himself not to speak, not to beg, but he didn’t think he could handle it if everything fell apart.

Finally Theo said, “Okay.”

“Respect Jackson’s need to protect his mate,” Peter warned.

Stiles could feel Theo’s irritation, but he didn’t argue. Peter gave Stiles a pointed nod which seemed to convey approval for how he was managing this hellishly awkward situation.

“Time to go home, children,” Peter called to Jackson and Lydia. Peter went over to Jackson and put his hand on his neck, the black lines showing that he was taking his pain. It was just for a second--Stiles figured Peter needed to keep most of his power in reserve for Isaac. “That was an impressive display today, Jackson. I’ve rarely seen a beta do so well against an Alpha. Aiden is no lightweight, and he fights dirty. He would have killed both of you without hesitation.”

Jackson nodded, and weirdly Stiles could see his wounds start to close. Peter turned to Lydia next. “Thank you, my dear, that was quite a scream. You saved all of us. Deucalion wouldn’t have backed down for anything less.”

She was pale and unhappy but she nodded. Lydia knew it was the truth. Stiles limped over to her and took her hand. “You need help?” he said.

She huffed out a laugh. “I think you need it more.”

“That’s for sure.” It was becoming clearer by the second that he was crashing fast.

“Jackson, come help me,” she called. “Theo, there’s no way Stiles will make it back to the house: he’s about to collapse.”

Theo gave her a flat look, but again didn’t argue.

Stiles took his mate’s hand. The rest would have to wait. “Let’s go home.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I posted a picture of Marco from Teen Wolf on my tumblr. As I said in an earlier note, this Marco is nothing like the guy who tried to murder Deucalion right after he was blinded, but I did have this guy's face, in particular that smoldering look, in my head when I wrote the character. Here's the link: [Marco Gutierrez](http://liliaford.tumblr.com/post/172182361421/marco-gutierrez-so-this-is-a-shot-of-marco-from).

Stiles didn’t even make it back to the house. He staggered a few steps but was stymied when he came to the little hill. Theo ignored Stiles’ (blatantly phony) protests and swung him up in his arms and carried him. Stiles consoled himself with the fact that he was feeling more and more awful, like he was hurt worse than he realized, whether from Marco or the stupid cut on his face, or any of a dozen other shocks to his system today.

He leaned his head against Theo’s shoulder and realized a second later that they were standing in front of each other.

“What the fuck?” he said. “How?” They had to be in Astral, though the background was just a hazy reddish blur, with no specific landmarks.

Theo smirked. “I don’t actually have to be asleep.”

“Holy shit.” Stiles had no idea what to make of that, except to recall Gerard Argent’s account of Theo’s past. It really was like there was only minimal difference between the planes for him. “So you’re like walking, carrying me right now?”

“Something like that.”

“You need to join the pack,” Stiles blurted out. He wished he’d gone for subtlety and gentle persuasion, but this was Astral.

“Stiles….” Theo started.

“NO!” he shouted. “No. I don’t want to hear it. You’re in the pack now. All you have to do is stay.”

“I’m not trying to force you to leave or quit your job,” Theo countered.

“That’s not good enough. I can’t--it won’t work.” His voice quavered and he was sure if he wiped his face he’d see the weird phosphorescent tears. “It’s got to be both of us. I can’t lose you.”

“You’ve been nothing but furious at me since I bit you.” Theo was angry now, and for once it sounded genuine instead of strategic. “You made it pretty clear that you wanted out of this relationship.”

“I wanted out of the mating! You had no fucking right to bite me and you know it. Fuck, I don’t want to fight about this again.” He took a deep breath, trying to get control of his words, but he was too upset. “Chris said something….” _Fuck, why’d he mention Chris?_ Theo turned away, but Stiles grabbed his arm. “Chris said--since I got to Eichen I had no… _no_ _agency_. No control over my life. And then you, my boyfriend, did it too, did what those fuckers had done--just ignored anything I wanted, acted like I didn’t matter. So yeah, I was furious at you.”

“I was saving your life!”

“I get that now, but you never told me that.”

Theo pinched his brow. “I couldn’t. If they found out that you knew about Argent and the FPMP, about what they were trying to make me do, they would have killed you or forced you to work for them too. I couldn’t lose you--don’t you get it? After they killed Corey….”

Stiles put his arms around Theo and rubbed his face against his mate’s chest. “I know. I know it was the night they killed him. Look at me, Theo.” Miraculously Theo obeyed him. “Will you try? Give it a month. Please. Just, can we start fresh, see what it’s like to be together outside of Eichen House?”

Theo looked away. He was going to say no. But for once Stiles wasn’t going to just go along with it. He _refused_ to accept that answer, and he was going to use Astral to force the point.

“Why did you tell Gerard Argent you’d go back to Eichen House instead of me?” Theo closed his eyes like he was fighting not to answer, but that wouldn’t work in Astral. “Tell me!”

“You really think I’d send you back to that hellhole? It would kill you.”

“So it was self-preservation?” Stiles challenged.

“Fuck you! It doesn’t matter where I am in the physical--if I don’t like it, I just shift to Astral. They tried to keep me out. They thought if they forced me to stay awake, it would break me. They were too stupid to see that it didn’t matter. I’ve been able to enter when I’m awake since I was seven years old: I figured it out in first grade because I was bored at school. And if they think I cared about their bullshit punishments they should try living with Sebastian for a week--he could teach them a thing or two.”

Theo was really upset--if he was mentioning Valet, he’d lost control of his words, which never happened to him. It was horrible to even think about what that must have been like, but Stiles refused to show any pity. He had a larger truth he was fighting for and he needed to be ruthless right now--for both their sakes.

“Something happened when you said that you’d go instead of me--something changed.”

“That asshole Hale stopped blocking me.”

Stiles grabbed Theo’s chin to make sure he was looking at him. “No, Theo. It was both of you. _You_ were blocking him. Boyd told me they could feel it. But when you offered to go to Eichen, you felt it, didn’t you? It made you stronger--helped you throw off the wolfsbane. That was the pack bond kicking in.” Theo tried to shrug but Stiles forced it: “Deny it!”

“Fine, you’re right.”

“Peter treated you better than you expected, didn’t he?”

“Big surprise: he wanted me to fight for them.”

 _No lying in Astral, fucker_. “Theo, I swear on my life, that’s not how Peter works. He’s a complete fucking asshole--you saw how he talked to Deucalion and Gerard Argent. He literally never stops--no joke, he would use his dying breath to make some asshole comment. He wasn’t like that with you because you weren’t what he expected. He thought you were some juvenile delinquent--he called you a _brat_ and a _little shit_ when we were talking about you. But when he met you, he realized he was wrong. You took out an Alpha werewolf when you were fifteen years old, and then you ran your own pack for three years.”

Theo broke away, annoyed that he was having trouble fighting back against Stiles’ arguments. It was the first time that Stiles had ever felt like he had the advantage in Astral. He went for his kill shot. “The only other person Peter treats that way is Boyd.”

_No lying in Astral._

That got his mate’s attention. Theo was extremely good at reading people--at least when it came to sussing out certain key qualities he considered relevant--and Stiles could tell that like Peter, Theo felt an instinctive respect for Boyd. Stiles suspected it wasn’t just Boyd’s personality: there must be something in his wolf that signaled to other wolves that he was the real deal. That’s why Theo had stepped back and let Boyd kill Kali--because Boyd _should_ be an Alpha.

“I need this pack, Theo. I’ve been out of Eichen one week, and I’ve had four major panic attacks, and at least as many minor ones. I need Chris--and Erica--and Lydia. I am building a life here, but I don’t want to lose you. I won’t say it will help you too, even though I think it will. I just _need_ you. I know how I acted after the bite, but I was angry. You’re my mate--I accept it, and I want to make it work. But I need you to give this a chance. Please.” His face probably looked like a neon light show right now from the creepy tears, but at least his nose couldn’t leak snot here.

“I’m really your mate?” Theo finally said.

“I swear.”

“Fine. One month.”

“Two,” Stiles countered, cuz what the fuck.

“Brat.” _Bingo_ \--he couldn’t say no.

“Your brat.” He leaned up and kissed Theo gently on the mouth. “Thank you.”

Theo kissed him back: it felt like it had been forever since they last kissed--and in fairness it really had been a while. He’d not seen Theo in the physical since the night of the bite, and the six weeks that followed had been filled with vicious arguments punctuated with bouts of savage hate-sex.

He didn’t have words for how good it felt to just be together, not fighting, not in Eichen House. Stiles was getting another second chance--this time with his mate--and he didn’t want to blow it. But speaking of blowing: just the kissing was making him majorly horny. He ran his hand down Theo’s chest to massage his cock. “I want you,” he murmured. He tried to go down on his knees, but Theo caught him by the arm.

“Jesus, Stiles… Damn it… Wait, _wait_.” Stiles pulled away, trying not to pout. “Babe, I’m good with Astral, but even I can’t fuck you here while I’m walking down the street in the physical.”

Shit, he’d forgotten.

“And the other problem is that fucking ghost is here--he won’t stop asking for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“In the physical--there’s a ghost standing right in front of me, yelling and _making a huge goddamn racket_.” From the tone, Theo was saying it in both. Jesus, this was going to take some getting used to.

“It’s Marco! He saved my life--your life too; Ennis was about to kill me. Wake me up?”  

“This guys’ timing sucks,” Theo said, but he did something and Stiles flew awake.

Ugh, that felt awful--like waking up while falling down a flight of stairs. He realized that they were on the front steps to the townhouse.

Marco was standing there. “Stiles! Erica’s in there.”

“You can’t get in?” Stiles asked.

Marco gave him a _duh_ look. “I shouted but they didn’t hear me.”

“Sorry, I sort of thought ghosts could, you know, float through walls and stuff.”

Marco looked at him like he was insane. “We use doors like everyone else.” He sounded almost offended. Theo was wearing a dangerously skeptical expression, which reminded Stiles of Peter of all people.

Stiles kissed his cheek. “Put me down?”

Theo gave him a heated look and copped a feel as he put Stiles on his feet again--a small, and fairly characteristic act of revenge because it looked like there was no chance either of them were getting off in the near future. Stiles shuddered and tried to tamp down his libido--at both the contact and the fact that Theo was using Stiles’ own desire to fuck with his head, something they were both sadly addicted to. He knocked and Boyd answered a minute later.

Things did sober up as soon as they were inside. Erica was laid out on the couch--and she did not look good. They’d piled blankets on her, but she was shivering and pale. Lydia was sitting in a chair by her head, wiping her brow, while Jackson held her hand. It looked like he was trying to take her pain, but Jackson barely looked better than Erica. But of course, he still growled and wolfed out when he saw Theo.

Boyd flashed his eyes at the beta. “Stand down, now.”

To his surprise, Jackson bared his neck, though he looked furious.

“Enough,” Lydia snapped at her mate. “Theo’s not attacking anyone in this pack-- _is he_?”

“He’s pack. We just agreed,” Stiles said quickly, before Theo was tempted to deploy his special brand of mindfuckery against Jackson. It was going to be a problem if Jackson persisted in leaving himself so vulnerable. He’d have to talk to Lydia later, but for now, Erica was the priority.

Marco ran up to her. “God, what’s wrong?”

“The gun shot’s healing, but the slice from the Alpha will take a few days.” Boyd seemed to have no problem addressing the ghost. “Pain’s bad. Jackson tried to take some but he’s tapped out; I took as much as I could, but I need to be able to fight.”

“You’re a wolf. Can you help her?” Marco asked Theo.

Theo shot Stiles an irritated look--unlike Boyd he was not going to accept a ghost as a full packmate without some resistance—but he went over and grabbed Erica’s hand, ignoring Jackson’s grumble.

“Careful,” Boyd warned. “We need you in fighting shape. There are still guys out there.”

“I know how much I can handle,” Theo said, cool but not aggressive.

And also annoyingly sexy.

“I saw them,” Marco said. “There are five. About a quarter mile.”

“This place is a fortress,” Boyd said. “But we should move the humans and Erica upstairs. It’s more secure.”

“Are the phones working?” Stiles asked.

“No,” Lydia said.

“It would help if we could disable that jammer,” Stiles said. “I could…”

“No!” Boyd and Theo snapped at the same time. “You’re the pack’s omega,” Boyd continued. “Peter will kill us if something happens to you.”

Theo let go of Erica’s hand. “I’ll take more in a little while. Pack will help her heal--skin-to-skin contact.” Stiles felt an unexpected ache at how Theo might know that.

“Master bedroom,” Boyd said. “The door is reinforced steel--an Alpha werewolf couldn’t get through it.”

Stiles was opening his mouth, when Theo cut him off, “ _Don’t argue, Stiles_ ,” leading of course to an outright boner.

Fuck, Stiles really needed to get a handle on his libido, though he could practically feel Theo laughing at him. Asshole--another way he weirdly resembled Peter. Speaking of: “Can you feel Peter and Chris through the bonds? Are they okay?” Stiles asked.

“I’m not getting any problems,” Boyd said. “You guys?”

“Nothing,” Jackson said, and then turned a hostile gaze on Theo, who just shrugged.

“I can only feel my mate.”

“Stiles and I will stay with Erica,” Lydia said firmly. “Stiles, can you even make it up the stairs?”

“Yes!” _Maybe_!

“I’ll carry Erica,” Boyd said. “Marco, can you get a bead on the hostiles?”

“On it, but I need someone to open the door for me.”

Theo’s eye roll was epic. “I got it--I’ll see if I can find those jammers.” In a final bit of revenge, he gave Stiles a short, very heated kiss before heading for the front door.

It made Stiles feel very Disney omega to have to hide upstairs, but then again Theo did have to carry him home, so he was probably just being stubborn. And in truth, just getting up the stairs made him feel like he was ninety years old. Boyd put Erica on Chris and Peter’s bed and said, “None of you leave the room. Jackson, you’re the last line.” The message was clear: _you die before you let anyone through_.

Man, Boyd was seriously hardcore.

“She’s my mate,” Jackson snarled.

“They’re your _pack_ ,” Boyd reminded him and went back downstairs.

Jackson started shedding clothes? Holy shit, he was going to shift! Lydia pinched Stiles to stop his ogling and pulled him into the bedroom and shut the door. “We can’t take her pain, but Theo was right--she’s a wolf. Physical contact will help her. Go take a quick shower--I’ll see if I can find some Advil and ointment for your face.”

It wasn’t even dark yet, but by the time he got undressed and under the steaming water, Stiles was feeling so exhausted he couldn’t even appreciate finally washing Ennis’ blood and guts off his hand. His face was stinging like crazy, his ears were ringing, and everything just hurt.

He wrapped a towel around himself so he wouldn’t get the sheets wet and pulled on his boxers for modesty even though he doubted either Lydia or Erica would care--or even notice. Lydia had somehow gotten Erica’s pants and shirt off. Stiles lay down next to her, snuggling up, trying to get as much of his skin against hers as he could. He made a few perfunctory complaints when Lydia spread something on his face, but he was already half asleep. He woke briefly when Lydia got in bed with them, on the other side of Erica.

“Go back to sleep,” she said. “No one in this pack is dying tonight.”

“Is that a banshee thing? You’re sure?”

“Yes, it’s a banshee thing, and I’m positive.” He gave a final look at Erica, who did seem better. She wasn’t shivering and she seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

“Thanks for the help with Theo.”

“We’re going figure this out, Stiles. The hardest part is over. Get some sleep--love you.”

“Love you too,” he yawned as he sank down into the pillows.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small plot note: only Alpha werewolves can knot in this Verse--you know, in case you were wondering. : )
> 
> Spoilerish Trigger Discussion: so I decided to add another tag for this chapter, under-negotiated kink. If you are not worried about it and don't like spoilers, you might want to read this afterwards (if at all), but I wanted to address it for those who'd had problems with the consent issues in the story. I mostly decided to discuss it because the issue concerns Chris, and unlike Theo and Peter, he is a character who had put a lot of emphasis on consent, but I think he pushes the edge here. The basic idea is that Chris deliberately triggers a deeply submissive response from Stiles in order to help him heal, but which he (also deliberately) does not explain ahead of time, because he knows that Stiles would resist it, which would mean it wouldn't work. 
> 
> I do realize this entire scene may make Chris come off as either a hopeless hypocrite or improbably inconsistent, but I was trying to capture my idea of his character in this story. On the one hand, he is genuinely trying to empower the members of his team and respect their choices, but a bunch of incidents make clear that he can be pretty manipulative when he thinks it's in someone's best interest. These tensions are most problematic with Stiles for a few reasons: because Stiles is submissive and finds it erotic when Chris dominates him; because he's a traumatized omega which pushes on the Alpha urge to protect; and because he can be self-destructive and can't always make good decisions for himself. 
> 
> Stiles realizes what's happening and that Chris is pushing him towards something that he'd struggle against, though he always recognizes that Chris is trying to help him and won't hurt him. He's not angry or upset, but Stiles also realizes that this is not an isolated incident. Chris is more manipulative than he appears on the surface, and that if Stiles wants to make his own choices--which he's conflicted about--then he needs to talk to Chris and make clear what he wants, though he also feels strong relief that (unlike Peter or Theo) he knows that Chris will respect his choices. I'd only add, again for me, because Chris has positioned himself as a savior for Stiles (and the others on his team), there is something empowering for Stiles in recognizing that Chris has inconsistencies and even limitations, which actually goes a long way to offset the enormous power imbalance between them. Sorry for parsing it all out at such length: I just didn't want people to be caught off guard.

Stiles had no idea how long he slept, but when he next stirred, it felt very late. He sat up. Lydia was gone and Erica was dressed and on her feet, murmuring something to Chris, who gave her a hug. “Good job today, kiddo.”

Peter kissed her forehead. “That was incredibly brave, Erica, if a bit rash. It is an _honor_ to have you in my pack. Now, your ghost is waiting for you in the garden apartment.” Erica nodded and then saw that Stiles was awake. She waved and blew him a kiss, but didn’t argue when Peter walked her downstairs. Chris shut the door after her. “Sorry we woke you.”

“Is everyone okay?” Stiles asked.

“Isaac needed surgery, but he’s going to be fine. He’s in recovery now. Boyd’s with him.”

“What about Jordan?”

“Peter found him. He’s a little disoriented, but he didn’t have so much as a scratch. He’s home now--Boyd pointed out that until we figure things out with the ghost, it’s prudent to keep them separated.”

Peter came back in then. “Good, you’re up.”

“Is Theo….?”

“Your mate is staying in the apartment with Erica and the _ghost_.”

“Should I….”

“We had a long talk, pet,” Peter said.

“You did? About what?”

“About how things are going to work in this pack.”

That threw off the last of the sleep. “I swear to god, Peter, if you fucked things up with Theo, I’ll kill you--I already talked to him. I got him to promise to try the pack for two months.”

“Told you so,” Peter crooned in his most obnoxious tone at his husband. Chris shook his head, looking amused.

“What?” Stiles snapped.

“I bet Chris $50 that you had bullied him into giving the pack a try.”

“You two with your fucking bets,” he grumbled. “I hope--was it okay--the way I handled him?”

“You were brilliant, princess. Perfect.” Peter came and sat on the edge of the bed, so he could kiss Stiles on the lips.

“So you are okay with him being in this pack, right?--he helped us today. He’s strong.”

“Yes, darling, Mr. Raeken is an impressive specimen.” Peter winked at him-- _fucker_. “And he helped me add another Alpha werewolf to the pack instead of taking the power for himself. Thanks to his self-restraint, our two-day-old satellite is now the highest ranking pack in Beacon Hills after the Hale pack.”

Stiles looked at Chris. “Boyd’s definitely in the pack?”

“He made it clear he wants to stay--in both the pack and PsyCrime,” Chris said.

Stiles wasn’t surprised. Boyd had seemed plenty protective earlier--like he definitely regarded all of them as his pack. Being an Alpha didn’t change anything. “So what did you discuss in this quote/unquote talk of yours?”

“I told you,” Peter said. “We discussed how things would work in this pack.”

“Right, could you be more specific?”

“I explained to you before the role that omegas play in a properly functioning pack: so we went over with your mate how that would work in practice.”

“Like, I can keep my relationship with both of you?”

Peter nodded. “There are certain traditional privileges that belong to the Alpha mate alone—Mr. Raeken in this case—those will be respected.”

“Privileges?” Stiles said skeptically. He wasn’t sure he liked where this was going.

“Well, only your mate can get you pregnant.” Peter looked like he thought the whole thing was hilarious.

“That’s not happening,” Stiles snapped.

“Nothing is happening that you don’t consent to,” Chris said firmly.

“No one said otherwise, darling.” Peter patted his mate’s hand. “Continuing: in keeping with the pregnancy rule, only your mate can knot you.”

Stiles tried hard to keep his expression completely blank, but Peter’s eyes were sparkling, so Stiles figured he wasn’t fooling anyone. That was a _slight_ bummer.

Alright, more than slight! _So sue him--he was curious, okay?_ He was an omega—knots were his crack.

Then again, if it kept Theo in the pack, then he supposed he could make the sacrifice.

Peter looked like he was about to burst out laughing and even Chris had his amused half-smile. “It’s possible we can renegotiate that one, pet, but let’s wait until we’re all really settled in the pack, hmm?”

“Sure, whatever.” Stiles’ attempt at sounding offhand caused Peter to lose it. He was laughing so hard, there were actual tears in his eyes.

“Oh you’re priceless, princess. I am so going to enjoy having an omega in this pack.”

Stiles shuddered in spite of himself. This ‘talk’ had better end with both of them fucking him, or he was going to be seriously pissed off.

“Moving on,” Peter said once he’d caught his breath. “Marking--only the mate can leave marks that others can see.” He wagged a finger at Chris. “Likewise, only the mate gets to engage in public displays of affection; at formal meals, you take the first bite from his hand, and in general, it’s his right to feed you at the table.”

“Feed me? What, like I’m a pet?”

Peter was abruptly serious. He put a hand on Stiles’ chin and tilted his face up. “Don’t mock, sweetheart. Feeding your mate is a powerful gesture for a werewolf. You’ll feel it through the pack bonds every time you accept food from him—I promise.”

Stiles nodded. “Sorry.” All those meals Peter prepared suddenly took on a deeper meaning.

“Apology accepted,” Peter smirked. “Which brings us to the privileges that belong to me as head Alpha.”

“Why do I think I’m not going to like this?” Stiles grumbled.

Peter smiled wickedly. “Oh you are going to love this one, pet. It’s my responsibility to discipline pack members, which includes you.”

Stiles shuddered. He hadn’t forgotten that there was little Peter liked better than--what were his words? Right: _providing wholesome discipline to misbehaving boys_. Time to throw out his office chair: Stiles was never going to be able to sit again. “Theo agreed to that?” Stiles asked, voice cracking.  

“Oh yes—he even told me that would be just what you needed.” _Fucking traitor_.

“Nothing will ever happen that you don’t consent to,” Chris emphasized again. With a pointed look at Peter, he added, “And that includes discipline.”

Peter barked out a laugh. “Oh Christopher, you’re adorable—like you didn’t take _literally_ the first chance you could to make sure I knew he had a taste for it.”

“You mean that first morning?” Stiles squeaked. “You could tell?”

“Chris might as well have tied you up in a bow,” Peter scoffed. “I’m sure that’s what he intended. He couldn’t have predicted that your mate would spend the night teasing you in Astral, pushing you over into hysteria—that is what happened, isn’t it?”

“Peter,” Chris warned. “You’re making it sound like I was trying to manipulate him into having sex with you. That’s not what happened. His hormones were going haywire and he was in pain. Since he made it clear he was attracted to you, I just wanted to smooth the way, but only if that’s what you both wanted.”

“Easy, love. I know,” Peter murmured in Chris’ ear. “But it’s past time that he understood that you are a bit more controlling than you let on. I promised that I would protect both of you, and I will. Now even your human nose can tell how aroused he is at the thought that you spanked him as a little temptation for me.” Peter gave Stiles a knowing look. “In fact he can’t keep his hands off his pretty little cock.”

Chris’ eyes shot red and he stepped forward and ripped the covers off the bed, too fast for Stiles to get his hand out of his boxers.

“Sorry, sorry, I forgot, I swear. I didn’t even realize.”

“Which was it, princess,” Peter drawled. “You didn’t realize or you forgot?” Oh god, Peter really did know his mate.

Chris’ eyes hadn’t shifted back to blue--he was seething, though Stiles didn’t think he was angry, per se. But he was _not_ pleased that Stiles’ had touched himself in front of him.

“Are you alright, darling?” Peter sounded a little cautious. “Chris! Are you still with us?”

“Of course,” he said woodenly. “I would never lose control with Stiles.”

“I know,” Peter said soothingly. “Have you changed your mind about tonight? Then I need you back. We still have two more items on our list to cover. For now, just tell him what you want.”

Chris ground his teeth, but then growled, “ _Put your hands palms down on your thighs and keep them there, omega.”_

“Yes Alpha,” he said before he could stop himself. His entire body shuddered and he had to grip his thighs almost painfully just to ride out the bolt of lust.

“Focus on his scent, Chris.” Peter was still using the soothing tone with his mate. “I am right about this. Now are you going to trust me to handle it?” Chris nodded and then blinked a few times until his eyes shifted back to blue, almost like he was coming down from something.

“Just a few more minutes, sweet, and then you’ll get your relief. But I think you are getting the picture here. We want you to give up control to the three of us--you don’t cum or touch yourself at all unless one of us gives you permission. In a traditional pack, a human omega, especially a male, wouldn’t be given a choice—the Alphas would demand it, and _enforce_ it by plopping you in chastity the day you arrive, with your Alphas keeping the keys. In this pack, we are asking you to consent. You can _withdraw_ that consent at any time, but until you do, you understand that we control your pleasure and will punish you if you disobey.”

Stiles’ head was swimming. He felt like he was falling down the rabbit hole with these two--a kinky, smutty rabbit hole. All that sex he’d had with Theo in Astral was feeling more and more like two teenagers grinding it out in the back of their parent’s station-wagon. Just thinking that Chris wanted this power over him was pushing him farther and deeper than he’d ever gone before.

“This is because of Chris—this is, like, _important_ to him—that’s why you’re asking for it?” Stiles said shakily.

Peter put his hand on his mate’s mouth to stop him from answering. “Yes, but you must realize by now that your consent is infinitely more important to him. He wouldn’t want this from you unless you were willing, unless you were deeply, dare-I-say _painfully_ aroused by it, which face it, princess, you are. He wants it from you _because_ you want it. And I’ll be blunt. Your submitting to us strengthens the entire pack, but Stiles, here’s the key: it _only_ does that because it gives you pleasure. If we ever did anything that harmed you, emotionally or physically, the entire pack would feel it, and they would know that the pack bonds had been damaged.” For once Peter was being deadly earnest. “What do you say, sweetheart—are you willing to give this a try?”

Stiles took a deep breath, trying to regain something approaching rational thought. “I can ask, right? Initiate stuff?”

“Of course,” Peter said. “We would be wretched if you didn’t.”

Stiles only just managed not to roll his eyes—like _Peter_ would ever say no. He knew an Alpha whore when he saw one. But Chris was the one Stiles needed when he was losing it, and Chris was also the one with the hangups. “Chris?”

Chris took a deep breath and then ran his hand gently over Stiles’ cheek. “Any time you need me, sweetheart. Don’t ever question that.”

Stiles nodded, proud of himself that he’d managed something other than immediate agreement with whatever his Alphas wanted. “This isn’t about denying me, is it? Sorry, it’s just, I’m like seriously horny most of the time, but I’m not trying to bullshit you: going too long without cumming messes with me.”  

Peter looked at Chris so he could answer. “This isn’t about denying you. It’s about submission and trust and responsibility. In my opinion, for an omega it’s the only submission that is necessary, and it’s also the only one that counts. Without this, any other act of submission is just two people playing games or manipulating each other. On the other hand, an Alpha who demands control over many aspects of an omega’s life risks either bullying or infantilizing their partner, and in doing so, obscures the entire meaning and purpose of their submission. But through this one act, the omega’s surrendering control over their pleasure to their Alpha, everything is clear, there are no games, and both parties have to take responsibility for their relationship.”

Fuck, Chris was _intense_. Stiles had read this right. This was all Chris. Peter and Theo both played around at controlling his orgasms, but it wasn’t real, little more than dirty talk for Peter and manipulative mindgames for Theo.

Chris was not going to accept their just playing at submission. It was a little unnerving. Stiles was pretty sure he was just scratching the surface with Chris--that there was a veritable cauldron of emotions and drives behind the Alpha’s careful words.

It forced Stiles to face up to how inexperienced he was. Luckily for all of them, Chris’ words to him the day they met had been born out again and again: that he would earn Stiles’ trust. Chris had been completely right, which was why he was even considering this, but Stiles hadn’t forgotten that there were _three_ Alphas involved in this.  

“I would be willing to try it, but I just—I don’t want to be punished with this—orgasm denial or whatever, okay? You saw what it did to me when Theo teased me all night—I had a major panic attack. I don’t want….” His voice cracked. It was weirdly hard to say it, but he forced himself to finish: “I don’t consent to that—with you or with Theo—I mean if he’s going to abide by this stuff too.”

“He is,” Chris growled.

“Good job, sweetheart. I’m very proud of you for saying that.”

“I don’t want you to punish me in public,” Stiles rushed to add. “Like at the Jungle or in front of the pack. I get that I’m the pack’s omega, but I’m also the PsyCrime Medium; we work together, and it matters that they respect me. Even if it turned me on at the time, I don’t want to have to, like, worry about what people are thinking about me.”

“I understand completely,” Peter said. “Thank you. I know it’s hard, but it is incredibly important that you be clear with us about your limits--and your needs.”

“We discussed the consent issue with your mate,” Chris added. “First off, if anyone is denied sex, it will be him, not you. If Peter or I see anything that we don’t like, we will intervene and he will not be allowed time alone with you until we are satisfied that he can respect your wishes.”

How the fuck did they expect to enforce that? Theo would just find him in Astral.

“I can see what you’re thinking,” Peter said, “And that brings us to our final item.”

Peter was being uncharacteristically careful, and Stiles was suddenly nervous. “What item?” he demanded.

Peter looked at Chris, who said, “We want the two of you to stay out of Astral.”

“What?” Stiles felt close to panic. “Theo’s not going to agree to that--I got him to say yes to the pack, but you can’t take that….”

“Stiles, listen,” Chris said firmly. “Please.”

“You don’t understand,” he almost screamed. “I need him in the pack. I know I acted like I hate him, but I can’t—I can’t lose him. I’m sorry, I know he’s a lot to deal with….” Fuck, he was crying.

“Stiles! Omega!” Peter said sharply. “ _Listen to Chris_.”

“He was right,” Chris murmured.

“What? Who?”

“Raeken. He said you’d have trouble with it,” Chris said.

That pulled Stiles up short. “That doesn’t make sense—he’s the one that…”

“He said that a third of the time, you were the one who pulled him in,” Chris said. “He knew you didn’t realize but he didn’t want to push it because, to quote, “stuff was so fucked up at Eichen.”

“I don’t understand,” Stiles said.

“Sweetheart, this is definitely something you need to talk about with him,” Chris said gently. “Neither Peter or I has any experience with Astral. That being said, it’s clear that there were grave problems with consent there. Even Theo admitted that neither of you could control how much you influenced each other.”

“Neither of us?…. That doesn’t make sense. It was him….”

“Pet, I think you had more power there than you realized,” Peter said. “I promise you: he wasn’t lying.”

“Stiles, I want to be as clear as possible: you are both going to have to deal with the consent problems before Peter or I will feel comfortable with you spending time in Astral,” Chris continued. “But the primary reason he and I made this decision has to do with your scent.”

“My scent?”

“To be blunt, it’s off,” Peter said.

“I thought I smelled good. Erica said it was like ambrosia.”

“A better word would be aphrodisiac,” Peter said. “Your scent is gorgeous, princess--intoxicating. In fact, it’s like you’re in heat--all the time. Except that you’re not in heat, and you’re also on suppressants, so you should barely be giving off any scent at all. It’s not _healthy_. A lot of the blame goes to those butchers at Eichen. But Stiles, I think part of the problem is that most of the time you’ve spent with your Alpha has been in Astral, that is to say, not in your actual body. That’s not how we work--werewolves or humans, and definitely not Alphas and omegas.”

Stiles couldn’t understand why this was bothering him so much. But the rising anxiety was screaming proof that a lot of things he’d thought about Astral weren’t true. But not to go in....

“You said nothing would happen without my consent.” Even to himself it sounded like he was grasping at straws, which didn’t make sense. He should be happy about this.

“Stiles, no one in this pack will touch your body, sexually or in any other way, without your permission,” Chris said firmly. “Ever. That won’t change. But this is different. This is about your health, your safety. If you were shooting up Bane, Peter and I would step in, as your Alphas and as your friends.”

“Bottom line is that this one’s not negotiable,” Peter added. “And to make sure you obey, you’ll be sleeping in here with us until further notice. For what it’s worth, your mate agreed without any hesitation, which I admit _greatly_ raised my opinion of him. In fact, it was altogether an extremely productive meeting--I am cautiously optimistic that between the three of us, we’ll be able to manage that outrageous omega libido of yours, and deal with your other needs as well.”

Peter gave him a heated look, like he was vividly imagining putting Stiles over his knee. It was probably deliberate, intended to encourage Stiles to stop behaving like a fucking junkie who’d just watched his stash float down the gutter, and start thinking about what went down at that meeting. Specifically, Theo treating Chris and Peter to his best noncommittal smile while they explained who got to knot him and who got to mark him up and who got to spank his omega ass when he misbehaved.

He wasn’t sure if it was the mate bond or if he just knew Theo that well, but he could almost taste how much his mate was enjoying this, enjoying getting a bit of revenge on Stiles for railroading him into joining the pack. And apparently it had taken Theo less than four hours to discover that the most effective payback would be to join forces with Chris and Peter, the three Alphas against the poor omega.

And no question: his mate knew Stiles inside out, especially his libido. Theo knew exactly how desperate these rules were going to make him. In fact, a porno started playing in his brain: Theo winking at him while he jerked off, knowing that Stiles wasn’t allowed to so much as fondle his own cock without Alpha permission.

And then the mindfuckery really started, because it occurred to Stiles that as an Alpha, Theo probably understood Chris and Peter in ways Stiles never would. Theo had taken one look at those marks today and known that they were Chris’, and Stiles had a feeling Theo knew that Peter would be putting him over his knee every chance he got. It made him feel downright dizzy that Theo might know exactly why Chris had reacted so fiercely to him touching himself--that Theo might instinctively understand all the dynamic shit with Chris and Peter that made no sense to him as an omega….  

“Deep breath, sweetheart,” Peter said softly.

“Stiles, drink!” Chris was holding up a glass of water for him to sip. What? He hadn’t even seen him move. He took a deep sip, not sure why he was so disoriented.  

Stiles reached for Chris—he just wanted to touch him, to smell him. But then realized that Chris had told him to keep his hands…. “Oh god please. I need to touch you… Chris I _can’t_ … Don’t be mad….”

“Never, sweetheart. I’d never get angry at you for something like that, even if you were deliberately disobeying me. If you ever have trouble, that’s just a sign that you need my help. Come here,” Chris said. He pulled him in so Stiles could wrap his arms and legs around the Alpha, mashing his cock against Chris’ iron abs. He went for that spot on Chris’ neck that he couldn’t seem to leave alone, sucking up his own mark. “We went too long,” Chris murmured to Peter.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Peter said. “But I need you to think about what’s best for him.” When Chris hesitated, he added, “It will work better when he’s like this, and you know it. The trust is there. He knows that you would never hurt him. Will it help?”

“Yes,” Chris answered.

“How much?” Chris hesitated again. “How much will it help, Chris?”

“A lot.”

“Your instincts haven’t failed you yet. You should follow them now. Whatever you decide, you know I love you.”

“I love you too.” Chris rubbed Stiles’ back for a minute and then grabbed the back of his neck and squeezed. He gently pulled Stiles back from where he was mindlessly sucking on the Alpha’s neck. “Sweetheart. _Omega_ ,” Chris murmured in his ear. “I need to ask you something: there is a technique human Alphas use to help stabilize the bond with their omega. I can’t go into detail, because then it won’t work. It can feel a little overwhelming, but I promise you it will help you feel better and it won’t hurt in any way.”

“I don’t _care_ so long as one of you fucks me,” he moaned.

Chris gripped Stiles’ chin and forced his gaze. “Stiles, that answer isn’t good enough. Now, pay attention. Peter will fuck you right now, no matter what. But the question you have to answer is: do you trust me to try to help you right now?”  

“Always trust you,” he said, words slurring. “Peter said rather die.”

“I told him you’d rather die than hurt him. There’s your answer, Chris. What do you say?”

Chris looked pensive but then seemed to make up his mind. “Get yourself ready,” he told Peter. “Stiles. _Omega_ , I’m going to put you on your hands and knees--is that alright, sweetheart?” Stiles moaned something incoherent. “Sweetheart?”

“Please, please just do it.”

“Good omega.” Chris gently lifted him off his lap and got him positioned on his hands and knees, and then put a finger under his chin to tilt his head up. “You need to keep your eyes on mine, sweetheart.” Stiles groaned loudly. Somehow the gentlest commands from Chris could feel like the most intensely dominant thing he’d ever experienced. He felt naked under that steel blue gaze: there was affection and reassurance there, like there always was, but hiding just beneath was that intense Alpha possessiveness and will that Stiles had really only caught glimpses of.

“Good boy.” Chris smiled at him and then murmured, “Now Peter.” There was a dip in the bed and then Peter was behind him, slipping his boxers off, massaging his back and then his ass and finally pushing his fingers in, stretching him. For once, the unceasing emotional and erotic roller coaster had left him floaty and languid, instead of freaking out from neediness, so he was probably loose enough to take even Peter’s ginormous werewolf cock.  

Time was getting fuzzy, but at some point, he felt Peter’s dick against his hole, and then it was sliding in. Like the first time, the werewolf held it for a minute, letting Stiles adjust, probably taking his pain too. “Match his breathing,” Chris murmured. Peter stared to pulse into him, slow and gentle and very steady. It was incredibly soothing and Stiles felt his eyelids droop.

“Keep your eyes on me, omega,” Chris said, calm but firm.

The Alpha adjusted his grip so he could hold Stiles by the throat. There was no hint of threat, but the gesture was still overwhelmingly dominant. Part of him couldn’t help resisting that, but then Chris said, “That’s perfect, omega. We’re so pleased. You can just let go.”

The words worked: resistance started to melt away and he felt himself breathing in time with Peter’s gentle thrusts.

“That’s beautiful, omega. Breathe with your Alpha. We’re so pleased with you.” There was something about the words--the pitch and the rhythm. It was deliberate. Alpha praise, some distant voice warned Stiles. This wasn’t just flattery or bedroom talk. The tone, the eye contact--these were textbook omega triggers. Chris was deliberately eliciting a physiological response.

Stiles tried again to access that part of himself that needed to resist this, but Chris knew exactly what he was doing. “You can relax. You’re completely safe. We’re so happy with you.” The Alpha broke eye contact for an instant to convey something to Peter, who gripped the back of Stiles’ neck. That produced a flood of endorphins that further drowned out any instinct to struggle against the Alpha.

Chris kept speaking to him softly, different combinations of phrases but always with the same pitch and pattern. “You’re completely safe. Keep your eyes on mine. We’re so pleased with you.”

He’d read about stuff like this. It was used in treatments: when an omega had been injured or undergone a trauma, an Alpha could systematically trigger certain primal responses which put the patient into a sort of fugue state that left them super-relaxed--and also highly suggestible. If Chris was doing it, it must be legit, but he understood why most omegas instinctively resisted this. It left them completely at the Alpha’s mercy.

He would _never_ have consented to this with Peter or Theo, but he did trust Chris, and he could even feel grateful that the Alpha had gone with his instincts and pushed through his resistance. Stiles’ personal history was full of questionable decisions and self-defeating or downright self-destructive behavior, and Chris was the first person he’d ever had in his life that he _knew_ would always protect him, whom he trusted more than he trusted himself.

But another less familiar little voice pointed out that there was a pattern here, one he didn’t want to lose sight of: it included Chris’ interrogations his first few days here, and the Alpha’s various attempts to push Stiles and Peter together. It was hard to spot because Chris was so kind, but when all was said and done, Chris was an incredibly dominant Alpha, and his instincts made him ruthless. It was more benign and subtle, but in his way, Chris was at least as manipulative as Theo.

There were times when Stiles could see himself taking advantage of that, staying passive and letting Chris make decisions for him, but if he wanted to make those decisions for himself, then and he and Chris needed to have a long, frank conversation. It was an enormous comfort to know Chris would always respect his choices, which was demonstrably _not_ true of Theo or of Peter, but sometimes the hardest part, for him or any omega, was forcing yourself to make your own choice.

But whatever lucidity permitted those insights was fading fast. Chris’ voice grew more hypnotic. “You’re doing so well, omega; your Alphas are here; You can just let go.”

He felt something like a slow-moving shudder envelop his body. Chris tilted his head up a little more, and rubbed his thumb against Stiles’ lips. It smelled strongly of something that made Stiles groan loudly and his mouth fill with saliva.

“You’re beautiful. We’re so pleased. Do you want to taste your Alpha?”

Stiles was beyond speaking; he just tried to lunge forward. “Relax omega. Wait for your Alpha. You’ll get what you need.”

Apparently they’d reached the point where the words triggered an immediate relaxation. Stiles shuddered again, but it left him languid and strangely passive, though he was pretty sure his mouth was opening and closing.

“Here we go. Keep your eyes on mine. You’re doing so well.” Something brushed up against his lips, something velvety with a scent that seemed to make his entire body convulse. He nearly yelled as Chris slipped his cock into Stiles’ mouth. But this was not a blow job. Chris kept his hand on his throat, keeping total control as he began pulsing in time with Peter, who’d not broken his rhythm this entire time. There was nothing violent or scary about it, but the power rush he used to get giving head had been replaced by a sensation of utter possession.

His last lucid brain cell pointed out that Chris had deliberately pushed him fully into his omega space--for the first time in his life.  

This was the rabbit hole--and he was falling fast.

From that point, all he could register was Alpha possession--his ass, his mouth, his body, his will. As he slipped deeper, the Alpha pulses turned into thrusts, and shudders began racking his body, stronger, and faster, and stronger and faster, until he began yelling over the Alpha’s cock as his body seemed to shatter apart, somehow purging all the pain and anguish of the last week, the last three years, leaving him loose and peaceful.

He could taste the musky Alpha essence in his mouth, and feel the burning in his ass, so he knew the Alphas had come, but he had gone much too deep to be able to recover his awareness.

Chris and Peter arranged him between them like they were trying to get as much skin contact as they could. Like Erica, some part of him registered.

“That’s right, sweetheart. The same thing that healed her will heal you too,” Peter murmured. “I don’t even know what to say. That was incredible, Chris. I don’t know if you can tell, but his scent--it’s so much better I can hardly believe my own nose.”

They might have kept talking after that. Stiles wasn’t sure. At some point though, Chris murmured in Stiles’ ear. “You’re beautiful. We’re so pleased. Sleep omega.”

So he slept.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as I warned there may be a bit of a break between this and the final two chapters. I am working on them and making real progress, but my brother-in-law and niece are arriving today, and as soon as they leave and another niece and her family are arriving for Passover, and I somehow got talked into hosting a Seder for them and my son's friends--you get the idea. All happy things but formidable distractions. Rest assured: I experience gnawing terror at the mere idea of having an unfinished story up here, so I swear on my love of Teen Wolf that I will finish and post the ending.

“Peter, I seem to recall when your sister first asked if you could take the Hale seat on the Council warning that I would not tolerate any shenanigans.”

Peter’s expression was one of almost comic horror. “Shenanigans? Satomi, you wound.”

Stiles wished he could enjoy Peter’s antics, but he was sick with worry right now. They’d barely gotten three hours of sleep when Chris and Peter were urgently dragging him out of bed to join Lydia, Jordan and _Theo_ so they could appear before something called a “Tribunal,” which looked and sounded awfully like an “inquisition” to Stiles.

As if that weren’t terrifying enough, they were currently facing three judges who claimed absolute authority over anything supernatural in the so-called _Western Region_ : Satomi Ito, the president of the Werewolf Council and apparently the most powerful Alpha in North America, Noshiko Yukimura, a _900-year-old_ Kitsune, and Alan Deaton, the head Druid of California, who Stiles figured was probably the most dangerous since he was smiling mildly and didn’t look scary at all.

“Shall I enumerate?” Satomi demanded.

“Is that really necessary?” Peter adopted what Stiles assumed was the same “winning” smile he must have given his parents during their first FaceTime call after he blew off UCLA to move to Venice.

“It _is_ necessary to enumerate--it’s why you are here,” Satomi said without a hint of humor. “In the first place, you gave a pack bite to the omega mate of a notorious mass murderer and crime lord; you formed your own pack made up entirely of bitten wolves; you killed two members of Deucalion’s pack, creating another bitten Alpha in the process; and finally you roused a Hell Hound, which led directly to the death of a United States senator.”

At the mention of Theo, Stiles couldn’t help gripping his mate’s hand. He’d not forgotten that the Werewolf Council had been debating issuing a kill order for Theo before he went into Eichen. Peter had said they would never execute a wolf with an omega mate, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t lock him up. Peter and Chris had sternly warned everyone not to speak unless they were spoken to directly, or else Stiles would probably be shouting right this second about how the “crime lord” case against Theo had been (mostly) fabricated by Deucalion, to take attention off his Bane pushing. Unfortunately, _mostly_ was not _entirely_. Theo and his pack had basically been living off the proceeds of their criminal activities for the last three years, and Stiles sincerely doubted it was some frugal, ascetic lifestyle either. And that of course didn’t even start with the “notorious mass murderer” stuff--though kudos to Judge Ito for comparing Theo to Sirius Black

For his part, Theo was wearing a polite smile that somehow also radiated boredom. Stiles had no idea what his mate was really feeling, but Theo must have sensed Stiles’ rapidly mounting panic, because he subtly shifted position so he could lift his hand and squeeze the back of Stiles’ neck, flashing his eyes in an unmistakable Alpha command to get a grip.

Peter wasn’t helping. He smirked and then said, “I believe you left out Marco Gutierrez: I’m not completely sure how to characterize him except to say he’s an Alpha ghost.”

“Alpha ghost?” Alan Deaton asked.

“Ennis Marks was killed by Marco Gutierrez, a deceased bitten beta wolf, who took the Alpha power for himself.”

“And how did a ghost kill a werewolf?” Deaton asked, sounding only mildly curious.

“Somehow he took possession of our young medium here, and used Stiles’ body to rip Ennis’ heart from his still living body,” Peter said cheerfully.

“You’re telling me that scrawny human omega is responsible for the death of an Alpha werewolf!” Satomi slammed her hand down on the table, leading to an ominous sounding crack. “This is nonsense--an outrage!”

Stiles could feel Theo’s claws extend, though his face showed the same bland smile. Peter must have sensed something because he flashed his eyes at Theo, probably as a warning to keep his temper. You didn’t need to be an empath to sense Theo’s annoyance at Peter, and for once Stiles couldn’t blame him. If Peter was so fucking worried about everyone keeping their temper, then maybe he could start by not gratuitously pissing off the Alpha werewolf judge who controlled all their destinies, as quickly became obvious when Judge Ito thundered, “If it were solely up to me, every member of this _pack_ would be executed. Today.”

“It is not solely up to you, though, is it, wolf?” The Kitsune spoke for the first time. She looked like an unusually elegant MILF, but her voice somehow conveyed all those 900 years of experience. “I believe the Hell Hound has something to say about this.”

Oh Fuck. Jordan’s eyes had gone decidedly hellish as he stood and moved in front of Lydia. “No one touches the Banshee.”

Peter and Chris immediately stepped back. Stiles of course just sat there gaping until Theo manually lifted him from his chair and dragged him away.  

Satomi wolfed out and got to her feet, letting out a bone-jarring growl, which caused Jordan to do his flaming man routine, which in turn caused both Theo and Peter to also wolf out. Theo pushed Stiles behind him, while Peter did the same for Chris, who had been forced to surrender his 17 weapons before entering the chamber. In the meantime, the Kitsune showed zero reaction while the Druid just smiled serenely.

Finally Alan Deaton said, “I’ve seen enough--thank you, Satomi.” He called out some words in an unknown tongue, which caused Jordan’s flames to disappear and his eyes to switch back to his usual boy-scout blue. Parrish swayed, but Chris and Peter moved quickly to catch him and help him back into his chair, while Lydia took the seat next to him and held his hand.

Satomi had, for lack of a better term, unwolfed (or was it dewolfed?) and returned to her seat, looking at most slightly impatient. Stiles managed _not_ to yell, _what the fuck_ , but he couldn’t repress an audible snort of disbelief. Satomi just shrugged. “Alan wanted to see the hell hound,” and then as Stiles opened his mouth to yell, _what the actual fuck_ , she gave him an unmistakable ‘talk to the hand’ gesture.

To Deaton she said snidely, “So I suppose we are finally now seeing the results you promised when you blackmailed me fifteen years ago into suffering that abomination of a mating to go forward.”

“That’s exactly right,” Deaton said.

“What are you talking about?” Chris spoke for the first time.

“The mating of Christopher Argent, scion of an ancient hunter family and a human Alpha to boot, to the Alpha son of one of our most noble and honored packs,” Satomi said icily. “We all waited for Talia to kill you, _human_ , but instead she gave you her blessing. Deucalion sounded a call to arms to put a stop to it. More than a dozen packs were preparing to join him. I was half inclined to myself, though I am fond of Talia. But Alan here sent out a proclamation that the Druids would withdraw their Emissaries from any pack who moved against either of you.”

The Kitsune said something in what sounded like Japanese, which caused the werewolf to shrug again. “Alan is very young--and very idealistic. I do not know why the old established packs must follow his quixotic fancies.”

“You are wrong, wolf. It is you who sound young,” the Kitsune said. “Too inexperienced and self-absorbed to sense the signs all around you.”

Satomi, who easily looked two decades older than the Kitsune or Alan Deaton, merely said, “We cannot all live to be 900 years old, Noshiko.”

“I think you’d better explain all of this,” Chris said.

“I agree,” the Kitsune said to Deaton. “You asked that we all stand by while they were made the sports of the fates; it is only just that you tell them why.”

Alan Deaton nodded. “The Druids have been aware for a long time of a growing darkness, that manifested as a kind of rot afflicting the forces that maintain order and balance between humans and the supernatural. We had hoped that the Great Reveal might stem the evil, but instead it intensified. It took different forms: the growing tension between born and bitten wolves, the rise of a Darach, Jennifer Blake, among my own people, the assassinations of psychics in different parts of the world. Most disturbing was the emergence of a creature that had only been observed three times in history--all periods of crisis for the supernatural--an Alpha werewolf who could enter Astral, a monster of almost unimaginable power and cruelty, Sebastian Valet.

“Valet might have remained an unfortunate anomaly but for your family, Chris. Your father and grandfather abandoned their code in the hopes that they could use Valet as a weapon. The problem was that the Argents were not just any hunter family. More than a thousand years ago, they had been given special gifts—an immunity to any form of psychic power—so that they could better protect those who could not protect themselves.

“To pervert that gift was an act of corruption so vile it threatened a sort of metaphysical wound that many Druids believed would ultimately wipe out all supernaturals in the new world. It was grave enough that the Druids concluded that the only solution was to eradicate the entire Argent family--anyone with enough Argent blood to possess the immunity, whether they were guilty or innocent, adult or child.  

“Except that one day fifteen years ago, the nineteen-year-old son of the Hales gave a mating bite to the twenty-five-year old son of the Argents. And because of that, I was able to convince my brother and sister Druids that we should wait.

“And so we did--we stood by as Gerard Argent founded the FPMP as a first step in the registration of all supernaturals; as he took over Eichen House and gave the Darach and a corrupt Shaman named Gabriel Valack total power over the young psychics imprisoned there.

“We stood by because at the same time, Christopher, you were assembling a team of bitten wolves, that later included a Banshee, who drew in a Hell Hound, and then finally the most powerful medium in America, who was mated to another psychic werewolf, one who was singlehandedly responsible for eradicating three of the most depraved supernaturals ever observed by the Druids.”

“It wasn’t single-handed,” Theo startled everyone by saying. “Not to kill Valet.” Stiles couldn’t help squeezing his mate’s hand.

Deaton nodded at him. “As soon as these pieces were in place, Peter again provided the spark. He bit Stiles, and in doing so forged a pack unlike any that has ever been seen.”

There was a long pause before Satomi said sourly, “My, my, Alan, it seems you have finally found a way to cure Peter of his insolence. That in itself should be a portent of something, eh Druid?”

She wasn’t wrong, actually. Peter looked stunned--he’d gone pale and had a death-grip on Chris’ hand. Stiles had never seen him like this before--except very briefly the other night, when Peter realized he’d bitten Stiles.

Alan Deaton smirked but added, “Noshiko is right. It is clear to the Druids that fate is operating here. This pack will repair the balance between supernatural and human. We will tolerate no interference with it.”

“In other words, the Druids will do as they choose--just like they always do,” Satomi snorted. “But there are still two werewolves in this room, and they come under the authority of the Council and will abide by our traditions. Peter, you have offered to take this young Alpha and his mate into your new pack. We will allow it, only on the condition that all criminal activities stop immediately. Likewise, you are personally responsible for the conduct of him and the other bitten Alpha--the ghost I leave to the Druids.”

Again the Kitsune said something in Japanese that sounded mildly reproving.

“Blah, blah,” Satomi snarled. “You Yokai and your love of freaks. I imagine such a monstrosity as a bitten Alpha ghost would appeal to a _fox_ spirit, but the packs refuse to acknowledge such bakemono nonsense.” With that she got to her feet and just walked out.

The Kitsune showed no reaction, just said calmly, “This Tribunal is adjourned,” and got up and left herself.

By now, Stiles could tell that something bad was going on with Peter. He squeezed Theo’s hand and then went over to Chris. “You guys need some time. Theo and I are going to go catch a movie or something.” Chris looked like he wanted to object, but Stiles wasn’t having it. “We’re good, promise--we’ll get a ride with Lydia.”

Finally Chris nodded and gave Stiles a chaste kiss on the forehead. He didn’t even say anything just grabbed his mate’s arm and pulled him from the room.

Jordan looked a bit embarrassed. “I’m actually supposed to start my shift in less than an hour. Do you need anything else from me?”

“No, thank you, deputy,” the Druid said.

“Do you need a ride?” Lydia asked Jordan.

“We’re only five blocks from the precinct. I can change there. I’m fine.”

“Call me when you get off. We’ll come get you” she said, in a tone that made clear it wasn’t optional.

Stiles turned to the Druid. “Uh, Mr. Deaton….”

“Actually, it’s Dr. Deaton. I’m a veterinarian.”

“Whoa, seriously?” Dr. Deaton just raised his eyebrows. “Oh, sorry. That’s cool,” he babbled. “Um right, so, you know Marco--the ghost? It turns out that his mate is my partner, Erica Reyes, and now she’s worried--well all of us are--or at least me and Boyd and Chris--that Parrish, the Hell Hound, is going to send him packing, you know, like he did the other ghosts we’ve found. You seemed able to talk to him--is there any way we can get him to let Marco stay?” Dr. Deaton smiled and shook his head, like even the Zenmaster himself couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “What?” Stiles demanded.

“Christopher Argent--every now and then you find people whose smallest decisions end up having consequences of almost unimaginable import--and of course, Chris is mated to Peter, who’s almost as bad.”

“What do you mean?” Lydia asked.

“After everything you’ve heard today, it may not surprise you that the Druids have kept an eye on PsyCrime from the beginning, even more so since you and then Stiles joined. So we were aware that on Stiles’ first day out of Eichen House, Christopher Argent put four people in a car together: a banshee, a Hell Hound, a medium, and a bitten wolf. I’ve already noted how the combination of the first three awoke the Hell Hound, with no small consequences. And now you tell me that it also was enough to awaken a mating bond between a ghost and a living woman? This goes far beyond luck--there’s a phrase, “agent of fate,” which fits all of you, but none more so than Christopher Argent.”

“Agent of Fate? Is that like Celtic or whatever?” Stiles asked.

“Well I got it from _Magic the Gathering_ \--I played on the Pro Tour to pay for college and graduate school—but it fits here. Anyway, you don’t have to worry about the Hell Hound. Of all the forces in our world, very few are stronger than a werewolf mating bond: no other supernatural creature would try to claim authority over it. Above all, the Hell Hound is an agent of justice.”

“That’s actually what we saw,” Stiles said. “Erica nicknamed him “Hell Cop.” Even before I got out of Eichen, Parrish was sleep-walking all over the city, finding ghosts, though he couldn’t see them. But he didn’t send them packing until they were able to give me their statement--you know, get some sort of closure.”

“Very good, Stiles. It is impossible for a Hell Hound to bury a crime, because that would be contrary to justice. I don’t believe in luck, not with all of you, but it definitely simplifies matters that Gerard Argent’s murders were foul enough to awaken a Hell Hound. Peter and the Hales have their enemies, as do you, Mr. Raeken, and this will silence them. Because of the Hell Hound, this Tribunal was mostly just a formality. But to return to your question about Marco, as an agent of justice, the Hell Hound is also a creature of rules, and there are some areas where he will never interfere. One of the most important is anything to do with a mating bond. Still, it would be helpful if you could explain how the ghost came to occupy your body.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Together, Stiles and Lydia described how Marco had sought them out at the townhouse, and then come to Stiles’ rescue before Ennis could kill him. Once they’d finished, Stiles added, “I wouldn’t mind letting him borrow my body again--you know so Marco and Erica could spend time together.”

“Are you crazy? You don’t owe them that!” Lydia said indignantly.

“I kind of do, and I don’t mind. Maybe while I was in Astral?” He couldn’t help glancing guiltily at Theo, who smirked, though then something occurred to him. “Is there any way I could get stuck there--severed from my body?” he asked Theo.

For once Theo actually showed a reaction--shock that anyone would say something that ludicrous: “What are you talking about? That’s completely impossible.”

“It is? Why?” Stiles asked.

Theo rolled his eyes like he was being asked to explain why water is wet. Finally he said, “I don’t even know how to explain it, but if you could see the way a soul links to the body--it’s not like a thread. It would be like trying to cut air. It doesn’t work that way.”

“You did it though,” Lydia pointed out. “With Jennifer and Valack.”

Stiles could feel Theo tense, while his smile turned warm and friendly, i.e. deadly. Stiles leaned over and kissed his mate’s cheek. “Hey, Theo, she’s got a point--I want to help Erica, but I don’t want to die doing it, and I’d rather avoid whatever happened when I expelled Marco, since it felt worse than ten cases of the flu.”

“I’d be curious myself,” Dr. Deaton added. “I should mention, Theo, that as far as the Druids are concerned, we owe you a debt for destroying the Darach. In particular, if you have problems with the packs, you may call upon the Emissaries to intervene on your behalf.”

Theo’s face was noncommittal, but then he said, “I made them believe they were drowning in freezing water. If that goes on long enough the body shuts down.”

“Good.” Lydia’s voice cracked. “I was worried they just drifted off in their sleep; I’m glad they suffered.”

“It would be the height of hypocrisy for me to criticize your actions, Theo--or your attitude, Miss Martin,” Dr. Deaton said. “But I’ll give this advice. You now have a Hell Hound in your pack. He is an agent of justice. If you kill unnecessarily, or if you kill an innocent, he will awaken, and if he does, there is nothing the Emissaries can do to halt the fulfillment of justice.” Stiles had to admire the Druid/Vet’s serene smile as he dropped that ominous warning. “In the meantime, I’d be happy to do some research on how ghosts possess mediums--consult with some of my contacts.”

“Wow, thanks--you don’t need to go to the trouble….”

“Actually, it’s the least I can do, and as it happens you’ve sparked my curiosity, so it really is no trouble. Here’s my card. When you get the chance, send me a text with your contact information.” He nodded and left the room.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate everyone's patience. I am hoping that the last chapter will be up by the end of the week. Sniff sniff--can't help feeling sad it's almost over. It's been an incredible ride. I do have some ideas for spin-offs and other side stories, though hopefully I will be able to leave them alone for a few weeks to get my life back in order.

It was just weird that the three Eichen House alumni were the only ones left in the “Tribunal” Chamber--three hapless teenagers who’d been majorly fucked over by these so-called “fates” (who looked suspiciously like ordinary adults to Stiles), until they finally unleashed their powers, wiping out their tormentors in a frenzy of claws, shrieks, and pulsating werewolf hearts.

It felt very X-men, to be honest.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Stiles grunted.

Jackson was waiting outside with his and Lydia’s car, but a glance at Theo was enough to have Stiles politely declining Lydia’s invitation of a ride. He hugged her and rubbed their foreheads together--a sort of human pack scenting, which somehow made him feel anchored. Once she was gone, he took Theo’s hand and they just walked.

They’d been called to the tribunal before 5am, but at least the sun was up now. It was possible Stiles was a little delirious from everything that had gone down over the past twenty-four hours, but the crisp November air smelled distinctly of Fall, and there was something just _exhilarating_ about walking down an ordinary street with Theo, with his mate, not in Eichen, with no obligations, and nothing immediate to worry about _._

Well nothing except his stomach, which chose to interrupt the romance-movie vibe by letting out a loud growl.

“Whoops,” Stiles said. “That wasn’t exactly the image of the dainty omega mate I was going for here.”

“Dainty? With your mouth?” Theo gave him the side-eye. “Let’s get you some food. I know a diner that’s open.”

Stiles winced. “Uh, so I know this sounds lame, but I haven’t had time to figure out the whole money thing and how people pay for stuff.”

“No time?” Theo smirked. “You’ve been out, what a week? I assume you managed to eat and I’m guessing you did not make yourself peanut butter sandwiches.”

“Uh, no, though I am learning to cook--well peel carrots. Lydia or Erica always paid for lunch--I figured Chris or PsyCrime was paying them back.” Theo’s smile got if anything more smug. “Just fucking say it.”

“You figured? Which means you didn’t ask. Did we suddenly go back to the Victorian period? That’s pretty hard-core omega, babe, even for you.”

“Whatever! I was planning to get to it--I have a whole list. The title is ‘stuff adults do’--it got derailed by all the death threats and my mate escaping prison and threatening to kill my friends.”

“Last I checked they’re all still alive--even that asshole, Hale.”

“Yeah and Theo gets a cookie. But that doesn’t change that I still don’t have any money.”

Theo gave him a pointed look. “Babe, I’m your Alpha. I pay for you.”

Stiles couldn’t help a little shudder. That wasn’t sexy--at least it _shouldn’t_ be sexy. This was not the Victorian period: he was an independent omega with a fancy-ass job at PsyCrime. He just had no idea how those ATM things worked. Or credit cards--though he was definitely going to figure it out! “How the fuck do you even have money?”

“I’m a crime lord, remember.”

Well that was an answer and Stiles realized it was probably the truth--he shouldn’t be surprised that Theo had money stashed somewhere.

Stiles elbowed him, but Theo put his arm around him and pulled him close. It was clear Theo knew the area since there was a 24-hour diner a few blocks away. It was Monday and they seemed to be getting in gear for the morning work rush, though the place was almost empty. A grandmotherly waitress behind the counter told them to pick any table, so Theo guided him towards one of the booths and then nudged him over so they could sit on the same side.

When Stiles looked puzzled, Theo said, “This is sort of our first date, right?”

“You’re serious?”

Theo winked at him and then turned to the waitress, who’d arrived with their menus. He flashed his eyes and said, “One menu. I’ll order for my mate.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet,” she said. “Are you two newly-mates?”

“Just a few weeks.” Theo gave her a sunny smile, and then squeezed Stiles’ thigh under the table, allowing his fingers to trail a bit too high so he could brush Stiles’ rapidly hardening dick. It was all Stiles could do not to squirm in his seat while Theo ordered coffee and OJ for both of them.

When the waitress was gone, he couldn’t help asking, “Is this revenge for forcing you into the pack?”

Theo smirked. “Of course not, babe. There’s no way I could have gotten by Satomi without our new Alphas vouching for me.”

Theo was wearing his trademark smug smile; in other words there was no way to know if he was telling the truth or not.

At least--not without Astral.

Stiles hadn’t realized how much he’d depended on it to deal with his mate until now when he’d been forbidden to enter. He’d always believed Theo had been drawn to him because of what they shared in Astral. But increasingly he realized it was true for both of them: Stiles could not have handled a relationship with Theo if he never had a clue what the Alpha was really thinking. And it wasn’t like Theo was totally transparent in Astral; it was just that reading him in the physical was hopeless. Even Chris, who was practically a telepath, found it impossible.

He felt a pang for why Theo had needed to be so very opaque--what he’d gone through living with Sebastian Valet for two years. But then he forced himself to shelve those thoughts. Theo would definitely _not_ appreciate him worrying about it, and even if his mate was hard to read, Stiles could still tell that he was genuinely in a good mood. Theo had a point: this was their first date. They both deserved to enjoy it.

“What are you getting me?” he asked.

Theo just gave him a knowing Alpha smile. “You’ll see--stop worrying.”

Theo had a gift for lacing his words with just enough force: it wasn’t the Alpha tone, but it did the job. Stiles felt the shudder go through him before he’d even registered the words. Fuck. He was getting a bad feeling about what his mate was up to right now.

The waitress came back with their coffee and juices and Theo ordered the hungry-werewolf breakfast platter. “Will that be one plate?” she asked.

“Absolutely.” Another knowing smile.

“So chivalrous. You’re very lucky,” she told Stiles. “I love seeing those old-fashioned manners on a young Alpha.” She practically skipped off.

At least someone was happy. Stiles, on the other hand, could feel his face burning. Chivalrous?--riiiight. That fit Theo to a T-- _not_. Fuck! He wasn’t sure if it was the mate bond, but he could feel Theo shifting into a familiar mode, the one where he amused himself by systematically flipping every omega switch Stiles possessed.

“You’d better not be angry at me,” Stiles warned quietly.

“Good try, but you know I’m not.” Theo smiled dangerously at him.

Okay, so that was the truth, and of course it didn’t help him. If the Alpha was angry Stiles would put a stop to this, but this was just Theo’s favorite pastime of mindfuckery.

Stiles wasn’t going down without a fight however. He needed to get the attention off his pathetic omega ability to get a massive hard-on just from watching Theo use a claw to pierce the top of the little plastic container of half-and-half and pour it into his coffee, though in truth, he’d never realized how erotic that could be…..

Fuuuuuuuuck!

“So uh, did you sleep okay--at the apartment?”

_And it’s Banal Chitchat for the win!_

“I was fine,” Theo said, raising his eyebrows as if to say _that’s the best you got?_

_Or maybe for the lose!_

“Uh, how was Erica--and Marco.”

“Both fine.”

“Uh, good, that’s good,” he squeaked. “Sorry the place was a mess--uh, Peter let all the wolves camp out there….” He continued spewing out mindless babble until the waitress arrived with the food.

“Thank you, this looks delicious,” Theo told her, accompanied by his most angelic smile. Before she left, he picked up the sole fork and cut a piece of pancake and held it out. “Here, little mate, eat up.”

The damn waitress looked like she would keel over from the overload of cute.

“Thank you, Alpha,” Stiles said meekly. That worked slightly better than the banal chitchat. Theo’s gaze heated up but then he shook his head as if to say, _are you really getting into this with me?_   

“So precious,” she cooed and then took off.

FUCKSHITFUCKSHITFUCKSHITFUCK!

He should _know_ better. This was an old game between them, and Theo tended to respond to any kind of challenge with overwhelming force, i.e. deploying his Alpha mojo until Stiles was a writhing mess of omega desperation.

The worst of it was that it was all so subtle no one looking at them would ever notice anything. If nothing else, Theo was adaptable, able to turn the most commonplace gestures and objects into weapons. An Alpha werewolf feeding his mate was not exactly front page news: maybe not the most common sight during breakfast at a casual diner, but no one would find it surprising for two young newly-mates still in their honeymoon phase.

Except this wasn’t something from the pages of a fluffy omega romance. Theo was waging a little private war conducted entirely through knowing looks and deliberate modulations of his tone, as he speared a piece of sausage and raised the fork to Stiles’ mouth. “Go on,” he said quietly.

Stiles closed his eyes as he chewed, trying to figure out how he could get in a few shots of his own.

“Good boy,” he said.

_Goddamnfuckingmotherfucker._

It wasn’t like Theo needed to pull out the big guns here. Theo had established the upper hand so fast and thoroughly, Stiles was already too far gone before he realized what was happening.

“Keep it together,” Theo said quietly, knowing that was just more fuel on the fire.  

“Fucking A,” Stiles snarled.

Theo wasn’t going to back down. “Behave yourself--we’re not leaving until you finish your breakfast.”

A shudder that was alarmingly close to an orgasm ripped through him, but he dutifully took another bite. Something occurred to him then, a small way to push back. “Can you feel it, the pack bonds--because you’re feeding me? Is it making them stronger?”

Theo gave him the full Alpha stare, but luckily Stiles’ curiosity was strong enough to serve as an effective defense--at least for that second. Finally, Theo said, “Yes.”

“Is it--does it feel good?”

“When you obey me.”

Well there went that strategy. His little attempt at a defense folded like a cheap suit. The lust hit him so strong, Stiles felt dizzy--probably because every available blood cell was making a beeline to his dick.

He forced himself to hold it together, but said hoarsely, “If you keep this up, I’m not going to be able to walk out of here.”

“You will if I tell you to.”

“Fucking A, Theo, tone it down--just a notch.”

“If that’s what you really want: _Tell the truth, omega_.” When Stiles just went red, he said, “I didn’t think so. Now take another bite.”

The crazy part was that even though Stiles was about to cum in his pants, he recognized that in a very real way Theo didn’t actually care about his submission. He wasn’t Chris. Theo’s crack was mindfuckery--asserting control over others by getting inside their heads, figuring out their pressure points, and striking when they least expected. But Theo was agnostic when it came to his methods. He used classic Alpha domination with his mate because that’s what worked with Stiles. With someone else he’d play the naïve innocent, and yet another, he’d be the awesomest dudebro who ever played a game of Ultimate Frisbee.

It was that chameleon quality that got him the “sociopath” label from the staff at Eichen. But again thanks to Astral, it hadn’t been difficult for Stiles to dismiss that diagnosis. Theo had a sadistic streak, no question--he got off on controlling people and _punishing_ them. But Stiles had known more than his share of sucky human beings growing up in the foster care system and then at Eichen House, enough to recognize that Theo was not a bully and he wasn’t especially malicious either. He didn’t pick on people who didn’t give him a reason, or people who couldn’t fight back. He was just _way_ more effective at getting back at people who messed with him than most people. Still, it was true that Theo didn’t seem to experience the usual range of emotions--he’d been chillingly blasé about killing Brunski et al. and he didn’t seem to feel fear or regret or empathy the way a “normal” person did. But that did not mean he couldn’t be loyal or protective--he was absolutely capable of caring about people, at least those who were important to him. And in Theo’s defense, Stiles sincerely doubted that Peter Hale felt even an iota of regret or guilt for tearing apart people he regarded as enemies--quite the opposite.

“ _Behave yourself, omega_ ,” Theo murmured and then to the waitress said, “That was delicious, thank you. I think we’re ready for the check _.” Thank god._

“Of course, Alpha,” she said.

There was some more banter when she came back with the tab, but Stiles couldn’t follow it. He was “behaving” which at the moment entailed gripping his thighs and keeping his gaze lowered so he didn’t give away that he was practically out of his mind with lust.

“What do you say, babe?” Theo prompted.

“Uh, thank you, it was delicious.”

“Of course, sweetie. Hope you two come again.”

“Oh we will,” Theo said. Once she was gone, he said, “Let’s go.” Theo pulled him up by his upper arm, and then gripped him by the back of his neck and guided him out of the diner.

Stiles stumbled along beside him, not even asking where they were going. It was obvious Theo had a destination in mind, and at this point, he only cared about one thing: getting somewhere they could fuck, ASAP. They only walked two blocks when they came to a seriously high-end apartment building, all beige marble and leather sofas in the lobby, to go with the uniformed doorman. Theo flashed his eyes to put a stop to any questions, and pulled Stiles inside. “Hey, George!”

“Mr. Valet!” the doorman said, sounding genuinely happy. “Welcome home!”

“Thanks, how’ve you been?”

“Great--everything is good with the apartment. Your sister came by about a week ago to check on it. If you want, I can call the grocery store and arrange a delivery.”

Theo made an almost imperceptible wince and then said, “No, that’s okay; we’re not staying. I just wanted to show the place to my mate--Stiles, this is George, who basically runs this place.”

The guy’s face lit up. “Congratulations! It’s an honor to meet you.”

For once, Stiles had no problem playing the shy omega. “Nice to meet you too,” he mumbled.

“Should I arrange for him to be added to the security list.”

“That would be great,” Theo said.

“Do you need the key?” George asked.

“Yeah, I must have lost mine in Tokyo.”

“Well that’s why we keep a copy. Here you go. Elevator’s all set.”

Theo thanked him and guided Stiles towards an elevator that already had the PH button illuminated. Stiles didn’t dare say anything as they went up, but he recognized the place as soon as Theo unlocked the door--the fancy apartment they’d come to all those times in Astral.

“Go to the bedroom,” Theo said, putting a shade more Alpha into his voice. “Get undressed.”

It was an effective distraction from the flood of questions about “Mr. Valet” and his sister--who had to be Tracy Stewart, right?

Stiles stumbled down the carpeted hallway to the master bedroom, with the familiar king-sized bed and the wall of windows, that were fortunately too high for peeping toms. He tried to keep it together as he pulled off his shirt and dropped his sweats.

“Boxers too.” Theo was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms folded. Despite the Alpha’s casual pose, it was easy to tell now that he was seriously aroused, which was a relief. This wasn’t all just an act to wind Stiles up. And Theo had thankfully seemed to have had enough with the teasing. He came fully into the room, close enough to grab Stiles and pull him into a fierce kiss. Things seemed to leap from zero to sixty then, as Stiles threw himself against his mate, shoving his hands under his shirt so he could touch Theo’s chest, thrusting his naked cock against Theo’s growing erection.

He felt that overpowering urge to mark-gnaw-bite Theo’s neck. He looked up at Theo in question: “Please, can I?”

Theo gave him his flat stare for a moment before turning his head to bare his neck. Stiles sucked a mark there, though it disappeared a second later, but just doing it settled some craving, which was probably something he should investigate.

But that was the end of anything remotely submissive from Theo. He grabbed Stiles’ arm so he could twist him around to face away and then pulled him against him. “Are you finally ready for your mate’s knot, omega?” Theo murmured in his ear.

“Oh fuck, please. Please Theo.”

“Go on, get on the bed.”

Stiles’ face was burning as he climbed onto the bed--an actual bed, a first for them, at least in the physical--and got on his hands and knees.

“Head down,” Theo said, still on the other side of the room.

“Damn it, Theo,” he groaned. Theo was not giving him a moment’s break, not that that was surprising at all, but Stiles had never been quite this desperate either. It felt like his mating hormones had been brewing and concentrating for the last six weeks, laying in wait for him to finally consummate his bond with his Alpha. Peter was right: fucking in Astral was no substitute.

Theo climbed on the bed behind him. He rubbed his hands over Stiles’ back, massaging, soothing. “You ready for this, omega.”

“Fuck, yes!” He twisted around so he could yell at this mate. “Now! I don’t need any prep. Fucking A, Theo. I can’t take this.”

Theo gave a warning grip to his neck, pushing his head down again. “You’ll take it if I tell you to,” Theo said again, which did finally cause Stiles to lose it. Words weren’t going to be enough anymore. If Theo was going to push him this far, then he needed the Alpha to hold him down.

“Jesus fuck! Theo!” he yelled as he tried to thrash.

Theo grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back and then gave a hard squeeze to the back of his neck, releasing a fuckton of endorphins, and in case that wasn’t enough, he added a full-power Alpha command, _“Stop struggling, omega.”_

His body relaxed at least. Theo let go of his arm, which flopped down. Next thing, Theo was gripping his left hip, while he pushed his fingers into Stiles’ hole, lubing him up, doing the barest of stretches. And then finally, _finally_ he could feel the pressure of that monster werewolf cock demanding entry.

All the sex over the past three days had left him loose enough to take it--just barely. Unlike Peter, Theo wasn’t going to take his pain, but right now Stiles relished the burn. It felt grounding, a powerful reminder that this was happening in the physical to his real body. There was no warm-up. Theo thrust in hard and then immediately started up a punishing pace. On a normal day Stiles would complain, but right now he sensed that Theo’s control was slipping. It seemed paradoxical, but with Theo that was actually a reassuring sign. He was too aroused himself to keep up his domination games--it let Stiles regain a tiny sliver of control himself.

Theo gripped his hips even harder so he could pull Stiles up off the bed, as if to slam his mate’s entire body against his cock. “Fuck, Stiles,” he grunted. “Touch yourself, babe. Make yourself come.” Stiles felt an onslaught of lust coming from the Alpha, as whatever trick Theo used to block people fell apart along with the rest of his control.

Something in him cracked--some diseased gnarl of anger and resentment and resistance. This was real--what he and Theo had was _real_. It was messy and painful and at times brutally dysfunctional, but it was also strong and deep and in its perverse way the most honest thing in his life. They had a bond that went far beyond that fucking mating bite. Lydia had said something his first day at PsyCrime--“you don’t get easy.” Only the three of them truly understood what went down at Eichen--and only he and Theo understood what they shared in Astral.

These were not parts of himself that he could just set aside or pretend weren’t there. How many times had he said it yesterday: _he needed Theo_. And for whatever reason, right now Theo was finally letting him feel how much he needed Stiles.

Stiles didn’t think he’d need it, but he did reach around to palm his cock. His dick was so hard it was throbbing and just one light touch was enough to jump start a series of vibrations that quickly began to escalate. “Oh God, Theo!” he yelled. It felt like the orgasm had laid hold of him, but he needed to wait as it built up its critical mass.  

He was pretty sure Theo was feeling something similar. “Damn it,” Theo growled. His thrusts became frantic and irregular, like he was chasing it, trying to force it, but it wasn’t letting him.

The teasing shudders got bigger, feeling more inexorable, and finally he heard Theo shout and that burning pressure began. His mate’s knot. He might have screamed _yes_ , as the orgasm finally stopped teasing him, and got real, each shudder getting stronger and stronger, until they felt like convulsions. He barely registered that he was shooting his load, because he’d finally hit that mindblowing moment where nothing existed except his Alpha’s knot.

Some time later he realized he was lying on his side, with Theo behind him, gently petting him, his knot still pulsing inside of him. He couldn’t say if it was intentional or not, but he let himself drift enough so that they were again standing face to face.

Back in Astral, and this time Stiles knew he was the one who’d pulled both of them in.

“Why am I not surprised,” Theo said.

“Did I hurt you?”

“What?”

“Chris said you told them that neither of us could control what we did there, what we made each other feel. Did I hurt you?”

“Jesus, Stiles. Are you crazy?”

“If I did, I’m sorry.”

“Stop. Now. You figured it out from the beginning--what’s your favorite phrase. _No lying in Astral_. You were always just you. It was like you couldn’t hide a single part of yourself, until the entire world was forced to change just to reflect it. It was gorgeous--it was you. I couldn’t…. I didn’t want to give it up, even though I knew what would happen if Argent found out. But even when I forced myself to stay away you’d find me. The only other person I’d ever shared Astral with was Sebastian, and he….” Theo forced himself to stop.

Stiles moved closer so he could hug him, rubbing his face against his mate’s chest so he wouldn’t see the weird glowy tears. “I want you to be okay--with me and with the pack. I don’t want to lose you.”

“I survived Sebastian and Eichen, babe. I can put up with an asshole like Hale. But speaking of our revered Alpha: you know I’d never squeal, but you’re never going to be able to hide from them that you pulled me into Astral with you.”

Stiles had known Theo wouldn’t squeal--no one who’d been in Eichen would. “You’re okay about that rule?”

Theo shrugged. “I didn’t say it to them, but I figured you’d just take the spankings--if you want in Astral, nothing’s going to stop you and let’s face it: it’s not like a kinky punishment from Hale is going to work as a deterrent, more likely the opposite. I told them that I wouldn’t pull you in myself. And Hale was right about your scent--we shouldn’t have sex here. Whatever Argent did last night made a big difference and it’s better now too, I assume because we finally consummated the mating bond.”

Stiles went up on his toes so he could kiss his mate and gradually Astral faded and he was back on the bed with Theo behind him, his knot mostly down now. They slept for a while, another first for them. As first dates go, this one was working out pretty well.

Eventually Stiles was woken up by Erica’s ringtone on his cell. He felt a rush of guilt that he’d not called her right after talking to Alan Deaton, to reassure her about Marco, but no time like the present.

He answered. “Erica, hey!”

“Where the fuck are you?” she sounded almost panicked.

“Sorry, sorry--we were called to this Tribunal thing with Peter and Chris, and then Theo and I went and, you know, had some private mate time. I’m really sorry I didn’t call you before.”

She let out a loud breath. “Oh thank god. No problem. Sorry. It’s just that we woke up and everyone was gone.”

“Everyone is fine--it was me and Theo, Chris, Peter, Lydia and Parrish.” Stiles gave her a run down of what went down at the Tribunal and then repeated what Deaton had said about the Hell Hound and Marco. “He said he’d do some research about how ghosts occupy bodies. He promised to get back to me and I’m pretty sure he was telling the truth, so I really think we’re going to figure this whole thing out.”

“Oh my god, thank you so much. Marco just said thank you too--could you hear him?”

“No--wow, that’s kind of weird,” Stiles said. That was one mystery solved: you had to be in Marco’s presence to hear him. Definitely something to text Deaton about.

“So I’m assuming the office is closed until further notice. What are you guys up to?” Erica asked. “You wanna see a movie with me and Marco? _Thor: Ragnorak_ is playing at the Palace.”

“Oh my god! I haven’t seen a Marvel movie since….” He thought for a second, and then said, “Wow, since _Guardians of the Galaxy_. That would be amazing.” Only, he recalled then that Theo never had much to say those times Stiles had shared his theories about the infinity stones. He turned over to look at his mate, who was rolling his eyes. He felt suddenly anxious. “I’ll call you back in one second,” he told Erica. “Uh, would you be up for seeing a movie?” he asked.

Theo shook his head and then kissed Stiles hard. “Stop worrying, babe. We’re good.”

Stiles pulled Theo close so he could snuggle against his mate’s chest. “I need you to be okay. I need you to tell me when there’s a problem--I can’t take worrying about it all the time.”

“Stiles, I promise--and you don’t need to go to Astral. I _promise,_ okay?”

“Thank you,” Stiles said. It felt like a tight knot of worry could finally start to unravel. “I love you.”

“I love you too, babe.”

And Theo was right: he didn’t need to go to Astral. He believed him.

 


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit I am so sorry for how long this took. So the bottom line is that I suffer from major depressive disorder, something that I hate HATE writing, not because I'm ashamed, but just that using it as an excuse mostly fuels the self-loathing. But as some of you may have guessed from how the story depicted Stiles dealing with his PTSD, I am trying to be more open in the hopes that greater openness will help reduce stigma and secrecy and ultimately benefit other people suffering from mental illness. Beyond that, I'm fine, I've been dealing with it for a long time and am good at managing it. But unfortunately no amount of self-care has ever been enough to enable me to write when I'm in the grip of it--which is why I have always avoided posting anything until it's finished. This story was actually an experiment in whether I could handle to pressure of posting before something is done, knowing the risks. I'm not ruling it a failure--I truly feel the story was improved by the feedback I got from readers, and honestly, that aspect of the whole process ended up being more rewarding than I could have imagined. So my deepest thanks to those of you who followed the story as it was being posted and shared your reactions. I am sorry that final chapter was held up by this fucking condition, but I am also unspeakably relieved that it did get written, and given everything, even a little proud that I was able to ride out this bout, deal with the disappointment that everything didn't go perfectly to schedule like I hoped, and post this today.

“I said minced.”

“Peter, it is minced,” Stiles protested.

“No, that is chopped. It’s dressing—no one wants to gnaw on a huge chunk of celery.”

Stiles rolled his eyes— _huge chunk, my ass;_ Peter made it sound like Stiles was mixing entire sticks of celery into his precious dressing—which _hello_ , was supposed to be called _stuffing_. But he didn’t argue again: it wasn’t like Peter would ever, _in a million years,_ accept “chopped” celery when he’d asked for “minced.”

Stiles couldn’t decide if it were weird or fitting that he and Peter were back in the kitchen. On the one hand, it had been less than five days since they’d spent the morning making chili for **THE PACK** (which thanks to Alan Deaton, really did seem like it needed to be spoken of in bolded all-caps, along with sinister music playing in the background.) On the other hand, those five days had been a roller-coaster of blood and drama and inquisitions immediately followed by three days of a slacker’s dream vacation, consisting of movie marathons, take-out Thai food, and round-the-clock sex with his mate.

It felt awfully like some CW show where the parents leave their teenagers home for the weekend, because over those three days he’d not seen Chris and Peter once. They had vanished after the “Tribunal” and only got back that morning. Well, vanished was too strong. Chris had kept in regular touch with Boyd, who’d firmly told their boss to take a few days-- _please_. They would close the office for “the holidays,” and Boyd would hold down the fort.  

Stiles had talked to Chris once, reassuring him that he was fine, that Theo was fine, but he had no problem backing up Boyd. It was clear that Chris and Peter needed a little time. There were too many things to list really--leaving the Hale pack, forming a new pack, a life-and-death battle with Deucalion and the FPMP, their new relationship with Stiles, the death of Chris’ father….

All of that was huge enough, but Stiles had a feeling that it was Deaton’s news that caused something close to a breakdown for Peter: finding out that Chris had been marked for death by the Druids, and that only Peter’s mating bite had saved him and the entire Argent family, which, Stiles had found out, included Chris’ daughter, Allison, from his first marriage.

Fortunately for their boss’ need for “me-time,” Boyd had stepped effortlessly into his new role as lieutenant Alpha, bringing Isaac home from the hospital, calling the pack together, assigning beds and even chores, and only raising an eyebrow when Erica and Stiles organized a Marvel marathon (minus _The Hulk_ , duh), which just ended last night.

Boyd wasn’t a miracle worker: he couldn’t give Isaac or Jackson personality transplants, nor could he magically turn Lydia and Theo into bosom buds, but then again, Chris hadn’t any luck with those either. But other than the usual bitchy snarking, none of the wolves seemed to have a problem with Boyd taking charge. Even Theo, which wasn’t that surprising when Stiles thought about it: like Theo really wanted to be in charge of adjudicating that night’s take-out order or deciding whose turn it was to empty the dishwasher?

The humans were another story given that they possessed no instinct for pack hierarchy. But Stiles at least was desperate enough to make the pack work for Theo, he had no desire to rock the boat. Lydia barely acknowledged Peter’s authority, let alone Boyd’s, but like Stiles, she did seem to respect that her mate needed the structure of a pack. Poor Jordan didn’t seem to realize that he was in the pack, and Stiles occasionally wondered if someone (else!) should try to explain it to him. At least as problems went that one didn’t seem especially urgent: it was clear that some instinct was drawing Jordan to Lydia’s side and it wouldn’t have occurred to the deputy to object when Boyd asked him to take on his share of the chores.

That left their final member: Marco, who couldn’t do chores or even open a door for himself, though he happily took on guarding duties since he didn’t need sleep (though they hadn’t yet worked out how he might raise the alarm.) Here again the pack broke down along predictable lines, with Erica and Boyd somehow treating Marco exactly the same as a full living pack member, and Jordan and Stiles at least trying their hardest to, while Theo, Lydia, Jackson, and Isaac remained highly skeptical. That left things a bit awkward for Stiles, since Erica had basically decided that she and Theo were besties, while Theo wasn’t even trying to conceal that he found everything to do with ‘the ghost’ annoying.

It made him wish they really were a CW show--he’d totally watch it.

But even CW teen fantasies have to come to an end. This morning Stiles had been woken at the asscrack of dawn to the dulcet tones of “Who Let the Dogs Out” blaring from his cell.

“Who the fuck is this?” he’d groaned into the receiver.

“It’s me. Who else would it be?” Peter did _not_ sound pleased. Apparently Erica had had some fun programming his phone’s ringtones. _Hah fucking hah_.

“Shit, sorry. Where are you?”

“I am downstairs, and I would appreciate it if you got that pert omega ass of yours down here. Immediately. I require a sous-chef if any of you want to eat Thanksgiving dinner before midnight.”

Riiiiiight. Today was Thanksgiving.

A well-known American holiday.

Which Stiles totally knew, since it was the official reason PsyCrime had been closed all week, freeing him up for all the sex and movies.

So maybe he’d mostly forgotten about it during his holiday-free years at Eichen, but he had a vague sense that it involved a huge meal with turkey and _stuffing_ , not nachos or leftover Pad Thai.

No indeedy, there would be no nachos tonight. Thanksgiving at the home of Alpha Werewolf Peter Hale required an entire day of cooking, and featured a turkey the size of a small car and approximately seventy-eight side dishes.

Which is how Stiles found himself ‘mincing’ celery.

“So I heard a rumor that you and your mate went on a double date,” Peter said as he finished up something he called “butternut bisque,” but which looked awfully like ‘soup’ to Stiles.

“Uh, yeah--we saw _Thor Ragnorak_. It’s great, great use of Led Zeppelin too.”

“And the Ghost went too? Did you buy him a ticket?”

“Marco,” Stiles corrected. “And yes, we didn’t ask him to float above the audience while we watched the movie.” Not that he could. It turned out that dying gave people a depressingly low number of new abilities. Like already being dead make it hard to be killed again, and apparently under duress a ghost could possess a medium, but they couldn’t fly, float through walls, or teleport, which was especially lame since Theo could do all of those in Astral.

“Marco liked it okay. But get this: he’d never even seen a Marvel movie, except he might have seen the first _Ironman_ \--like he wasn’t sure? How is that even possible? Erica loved it though—she’s got great taste.”

“And your mate?” Peter asked, putting just enough emphasis on ‘mate ’ to make it sarcastic.

Stiles refused to react. “Uh, Marvel’s not really Theo’s thing, but he wasn’t a dick about it or anything. We had a full Marvel marathon while you were gone.”

“And any problems?”

“No, no problems.”

“And he hasn’t tried to find you in Astral?”

“No, he hasn’t--not once.”

“I can smell the guilt pouring off of you, princess. So let’s hear it.”

Fucking werewolves. “Fine--I found him.”

Peter put down the knife he was using to chop some nut--pecans maybe. “I thought we made it clear that there would be no Astral, for either of you.”

“Look, you can’t lie there, okay? I needed to talk to him--about what you and Chris told me, about whether I manipulated him there.”

Peter gave him his best ‘bitch please’ expression. “I can hear your heart racing, sweet, which means that you just tried to deceive me. Let me guess: that explanation covers the first time you dragged him in. Chris and I were gone for three days, so how many times did you two actually enter Astral?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. “I think it was four.”

“Try again.”

“Okay, fine, it was five--well six, but the last was just a few seconds--it wasn’t Theo’s fault and he totally backed you on the no sex rule.”

“Oh, I’m quite sure it wasn’t his fault, pet. Now here’s how this is going to work, omega. You deliberately disobeyed me. You are going to answer two questions, truthfully, and then we are going to decide on your punishment together. First question: leaving aside the first time, on the five subsequent times, did you believe that you were doing something that had earned a punishment from me?”

Stiles swallowed. Peter wasn’t being flirty or kinky. He was suddenly afraid that he’d made Peter mad or disappointed in him. “I knew you’d punish me.”

There was a softening of the Alpha’s features then. “I can scent your fear, omega, and I’m pretty sure it isn’t about the prospect of a spanking from me.”

“I don’t want you to be angry at me.”

“Come here, sweetheart.” Peter put his arms around him for a quick hug and then pushed him back so Stiles could meet his eye. “Here’s the deal with that. I will _never_ punish you when I am angry. Ever.” Peter was being utterly serious. “Believe it or not, despite my asshole reputation, it is _not_ easy for you to make me angry, not in the sense you are worried about. It would take something very serious, and anything like that would be something that I would need to bring up with Chris, and, if appropriate, with your mate. Does that help, omega?”

“Yes, Alpha.”

“Okay. So there’s something we need to have very clear between us: an omega who deliberately disobeys an Alpha--I won’t use the phrase _crying out for help_ , but in many cases, the omega is counting on their Alpha to establish limits for them and then enforce any consequences. When the Alpha fails to do that, an omega can feel adrift or abandoned. I’ll be honest, Stiles, what you just told me sounds awfully like that.”

“I don’t know.” His face was burning.

“That’s okay, sweetheart. So that leads us to my second question: Do you trust me to use _my_ judgment, basically to rely on your scent as my guide on how much punishment you need?”

Stiles felt suddenly dizzy. “This isn’t just a kinky game, is it?”

“It can be,” Peter said gently. “And it’s okay that you’re turned on by being punished by your Alpha. That doesn’t make it less helpful for you. And keep in mind that this is not happening because _I_ don’t make mistakes, or don’t deserve to be called out for them. _This_ right now is not about authority. It’s about dynamic--whether your granting me this power over you helps you, and whether my instincts as an Alpha enable me to read you well enough to be able to do that. What do you say, sweetheart?”

Stiles nodded and then realized that he needed to actually say it: “I trust you.”

“Okay. So drop your pants and lean against the counter.”

It was good he had the counter because he needed it to hold himself up. It wasn’t like that last time--sexy foreplay. There was no way Peter would fuck him right now--not with an entire Thanksgiving Feast in the works. But he could feel himself settling, some buzzing in his brain easing off. It was obvious now: he’d been on edge with Peter and Chris gone, and he’d acted out by going into Astral over and over for no good reason. He’d gone in even though all three Alphas in his life had made a convincing case that his time in Astral had hurt him. He shuddered and his eyes started burning--god he was a cliché. Peter hadn’t even started yet and he was already crying.

“Easy, I’m not mad. I’m not even disappointed. You don’t need to feel that towards me. I’m helping you set a limit for yourself.” Peter started a series of light slaps that felt like a warm up, before the smacks became harder and more pointed. “And,” he continued, his voice turning sultry, “it is okay if you’re aroused by this. In fact, I wonder if you can come just from being spanked. The last time we did this, you were close.”

Stiles groaned and of course his dick shot hard. He almost wanted to fight this, because it was just too embarrassing. Peter caught it of course. “Let’s lose the shame, shall we, omega? Submitting to this helps you and helps the pack. Not to mention that you look positively edible right now. Let’s see how that lovely cock of yours is responding.” Peter reached around and brushed his fingers over Stiles’ dick, which was in fact straining. “Very good. Now I’ll give you five more. Do you need a dish cloth? Answer, pet.”

“Yes,” he groaned. Peter passed him a cloth just in time, because of course he was shooting like he hadn’t cum in weeks, when in fact he he’d cum three times just last night.

“Beautiful. You smell better. Do you feel better?”

“Yes.”

“Good, now normally I’d have you suck me off, but we have a Thanksgiving dinner to prepare,” he said as he washed his hands. “And I believe that is Chris’ car pulling up now.”

Stiles hurried to pull up his pants and wash his hands, just in time for Chris to come in. He couldn’t help throwing himself on the Alpha and before he even realized it, he’d sucked a bite mark on Chris’ neck.

“Hey, kiddo, you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean….”

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Always. Whatever you need,” Chris said, meeting his eye. He really meant it, not that Stiles was surprised. Chris’ entire existence seemed to be about making sure the people in his life had whatever support they needed from him, which was especially crazy since the Alpha had a definite jones for rescuing hard luck cases. Stiles was certainly one of them, and he would never stop being grateful that Chris had sought him out at Eichen that day. But he had to hand it to the team: they were all familiar with Chris’ hero complex and those rare times when Chris absolutely needed to do something for himself, they were all adamant about making sure he could.

“I’m just really glad you’re home--sorry, I know you needed it. I just missed you.”

“You’re right. It was something we needed,” Chris said, “but I know that it came at a hard time for the pack.”

“It was okay--Boyd totally stepped up.”

“You look good--better,” Chris said, rubbing Stiles’ cheek with his thumb. “Was everything okay with your mate?”

“I think so.” Stiles looked at Peter. “Have you sensed anything… any problems?”

“I would tell you if I had,” Peter said. “The bond is settled. Unlike the other wolves, he’s been in a pack before and he clearly knows how to control the information he’s giving out, but he allowed the other wolves to draw on him for healing, which was the most important point.”

As soon as Stiles was able to peel himself off, Chris went over to Peter and put his hands on his hips, silently asking how he was. Peter made a little nod, and kissed his mate, looking relieved that Chris was home.

Stiles blushed and turned his attention back to the dressing/stuffing. He didn’t feel like an intruder, but he wanted them to have their moment. Stiles had no doubt that he’d guessed right: Peter had had some sort of personal crisis and though he hid it well, the werewolf was still feeling a little fragile.

He felt an unexpected relief that Chris and Peter’s relationship hadn’t seemed to change because of him. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to come between them: he’d seen first hand how much they depended on each other--both of them--in ways that he could never fill and didn’t want to. He was no longer afraid to admit to himself that he was in love with both of them, but they were mates, and that was a bond that did not have to include him. As the pack’s omega Wan Kenobi, he was determined to protect their time together, and he could feel that just this little moment was helping Peter.

“How’s dinner going?” Chris said after a minute. “Anything I can do to help?”

Peter checked his complicated system of timers. “The turkey should come out in an hour and then needs to rest for another twenty minutes while I make the gravy and finish the potatoes.” He tilted his head. “I can hear Erica et al pulling up now. Why don’t you put out the hors d’oeuvres and figure out the wine. Stiles, we need to get that dressing in the oven, STAT.”

“And it’s still called stuffing,” he muttered.

He’d just finished turning the bowl into two baking dishes, when he heard the door open. “Chris must be here,” Erica called behind her, presumably explaining to Marco why he couldn’t come inside. Not that she was upset. She threw her arms around Chris. “I missed you! Boyd’s cool, but he’s not you!”

“I’m glad to be home,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Is Marco okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll have to go let him inside the apartment--he can’t open doors, but he’s cool. Curious as hell, since he can’t meet you, but he gets that this is your house.”

“I admit I’m curious too. It’s going to be hard not getting to know your mate,” Chris said. Stiles didn’t need a werewolf’s scent to sense how much it meant to Erica that Chris acknowledged Marco as her mate, something the other wolves had been grudging about.

Speaking of mates, the door opened again and Theo and Boyd came in.

“Erica, I let Marco into the apartment,” Boyd said.

“Oh my god, thank you. I wonder if that vet guy can find a way for him to go through doors,” she said.

Theo immediately came up and put his arms around Stiles, and then sucked a highly visible mark on his neck. Stiles couldn’t help an embarrassed look at Peter, who just looked amused. Peter and Chris probably assumed that Theo was asserting his privileges as Alpha mate because they were there, but in truth he’d been doing it all week.

Stiles hadn’t called him on it. No joke, Theo was a natural when it came to playing the dominant Alpha mate, better than he had any right to be given that he was almost a full year younger than Stiles. But Stiles also knew his mate was struggling. Theo hid it well, but he’d been dropped into an utterly unfamiliar situation, surrounded by people he didn’t particularly trust or even like.

From what Stiles could tell, Theo had only given a shit about three people in his life, and two of them were dead. He had nothing solid to hold onto right now except his mate, and for the first time in his life, Stiles felt strong enough to actually be someone else’s anchor.  

Of course, it helped that it was all hot as fuck. “You smell happy,” Theo said, with a smile that made Stiles shudder. The words sounded innocuous but the look that accompanied them made clear that Theo had already figured out that Peter had just spanked his omega ass until he shot his load. Theo was fast perfecting the art of reducing Stiles to a writhing mass of omega horniness using nothing more than a look or barely perceptible modulations in tone.

“How did it go at the drop-in center?” Stiles asked, hoping to change the subject.

Theo just shrugged, but Boyd said, “It was good. I think this will work.”

Marco had come up with the idea that Boyd and Theo could do shifts at his old drop-in center on full moon nights to see if their Alpha power could help anchor wolves having a hard time with their control--give them an alternative to shooting up Bane or committing acts of vandalism.

Boyd, who knew all about what it was like to be a bitten wolf without an Alpha, had immediately agreed, and Stiles had to hand it to the dude: he’d somehow convinced Theo to go along with it, though on a normal day, Theo was not the type to volunteer at a center for homeless teenagers.  

“Excellent--I hope to hear all about it later, but now we have a Thanksgiving dinner to finish,” Peter said in his Alpha voice. “Stiles, why don’t you and your mate peel the potatoes. Erica, you can set the table….” and on until all of them were scurrying about at their various tasks. Theo rolled his eyes like he always did, but Stiles couldn’t sense any hostility in him. It did seem like Peter knew what he was doing when it came to managing the pack. And though Stiles would be keeping his observation to himself, he could tell all the wolves felt better having Peter there--Theo included. Theo might not like Peter or having an Alpha, but he was a werewolf--being part of a pack was instinct for him, and when his packmates were happy and settled, Theo was too.

Lydia, Jackson and Parrish arrived a few minutes later, bearing four pies. When Stiles looked puzzled, Lydia said, “Peter called us yesterday and asked if we’d handle dessert. Mine are from a bakery, but Jordan made his.”

“It’s my grandmother’s recipe: apple-cranberry pie,” he said, as usual being more adorable than someone possessed by a hell hound had any right to be.

Everyone was still trying to figure out exactly what was going on with the three of them. Erica had appointed herself pack bookie for the various bets going around. Marco and Stiles had each bet $20 that things would stay platonic, at least through the end of the year, while Erica bet that they would celebrate the holidays by starting a full polyamorous relationship, and Isaac and Boyd that Lydia would fuck Parrish. But based on the body language Stiles was seeing right now, it was looking more and more like Theo would win the pot: he’d bet that Jackson would seduce Jordan as a sort of icebreaker.

Jackson was always so prickly and dickish but the last few days had proven that a fair amount--not all!--of that was due to not having an Alpha or a pack. Stiles had not really questioned Jackson and Lydia’s “matehood.” The dude was ridiculously gorgeous, and knowing Lydia (and Stiles knew her very well), Jackson had to hit _at least_ ‘rock my world’ level on their old Eichen scale of good fucks.

As the mate of a mass-murderer with sadistic tendencies, Stiles really wasn’t in a position to criticize Jackson’s personality deficiencies. But there was one quality of Jackson’s that did shine through consistently: loyalty. Protecting, taking care of someone--Stiles had to admit that those things brought out the best in Jackson. Lydia had spent almost as much time in Eichen House as Stiles had: he was not going to blame her for falling for someone who always put her first. Jackson was obviously possessive, but if his wolf claimed Jordan then maybe a relationship between the three of them could work. Lydia could be hard to read, but Stiles had to assume that if she had _zero_ interest in Jordan there would not currently be an office pool on when or whether she would fuck him.

Of course there was the (not-so) minor complication that it was not just _three_ of them. The Hell Hound would share that bed as well. Jordan seemed as clueless about that as he was about everything else, but one thing was indisputable: the creature who possessed him had claimed the banshee.

Stiles let his imagination run with that one for a while, in all its combinations--and honestly, every last one of them was _hot_. It made him hope that Theo won their bet.

The next hour was an exercise in controlled chaos, but thanks to Peter’s barked orders, Chris’ calm support, and Jordan’s surprising skill with a chef’s knife, the entire pack minus Marco was finally seated at the long dining-room table, plates filled with a Thanksgiving meal that belonged on the cover of a food magazine. Peter then nodded at Theo, who cut a bite of turkey from their shared plate and fed it to Stiles with only a hint of his usual smirk. There was a moment of silence that Stiles at least found mortifying before Erica let out a loud whoop. “I sure as shit felt that one--how the fuck do you do it?”

“Dare I ask?” Peter quipped, and then to the table, “Please, children, eat up.”

“They’ve been doing the feeding thing all week,” Erica said, loading turkey, mashed potatoes and Stiles’ stuffing/dressing onto her fork. “And every time, I swear I have the warm fuzzies for like an hour.”

“I seem to remember saying something about that,” Peter said, looking at them pointedly.

Theo gazed back coolly while Stiles wondered if he could crawl under the table. Theo had insisted on feeding him all week, but what had started out as teasing, of both the erotic and non-erotic varieties, had morphed into something more complicated. All the wolves admitted they could feel it, even Theo when Stiles questioned him in Astral. Apparently Peter had not been exaggerating about its effects on the pack bonds.

Chris took pity on him and changed the subject, and Stiles tried not to look too self-conscious as Theo fed him until he was full before starting on his own meal.

When the second and in a few cases third helpings were finally eaten, Chris, Jackson, and Isaac took charge of the clean-up, while Peter made coffee and Lydia and Jordan served out the pies. Once everyone was served and had a chance to sample Jordan’s pie (which was fucking delicious,) Peter and Chris nodded at each other and then stood up. “We have something we need to discuss,” Chris said. “I don’t know if Boyd mentioned it, but as part of the fallout from last Sunday, Peter and I ended up going to Washington DC. We were asked to testify before Congress about the FPMP.”

“Holy shit,” Erica said.

“Seriously?” Isaac said. “No, Boyd did not mention it.”

“Didn’t come up,” Boyd just shrugged.

“Did everything go okay?” Lydia asked.

“Ultimately,” Chris said. “Alan Deaton flew out so he could add his insights, which definitely helped. I’ll tell you about it later if you’re curious, but that’s not why we wanted to talk to you.”

“The reason we wished to speak to you,” Peter said firmly, “is that while we were there, we met with my sister. The long and short is that Talia has offered to cede the territory of Beacon Hills to our pack.”

“You’re kidding?” Isaac said. From the expression of the wolves at the table, this was a huge deal.

“Yes, well she is mostly in Washington, and my nieces and nephew are spread around the country at this point.”

“There are responsibilities involved,” Chris said, “but she correctly pointed out that they overlap well with our mandate at PsyCrime. Due to the convergence of the major west coast telluric currents, Beacon Hills will always be a hotbed of supernatural and psychic activity.”

“And there’s another consideration,” Peter continued. “Talia said she would make Hale House available to the pack, which needless to say is much bigger than the townhouse--everyone could have a room. I am aware that there are disadvantages to everyone living together, but as far as overall security and the pack bonds go, it would definitely be in the best interests of the pack.”

There was a moment of shocked silence, followed by Erica shouting, “Holy shit! Do you remember the bar-be-cue last year? The pool!”

“Pool my ass--did you get down to the lake?” Isaac said.

“Excuse me--they have a hot tub,” Lydia put in.

“Could Marco and I have the gatehouse?” Erica demanded. “That would be far enough from Chris!”

Suddenly everyone was talking. “I can’t wait to see my asshole roommate’s face when I tell him I’m moving out--I will not miss paying $1200 a month for that dump,” Isaac told Jackson. Stiles could hear Boyd detailing Hale House’s formidable security features to Jordan, which apparently included ancient mystical wards laid down by generations of Druid emissaries; meanwhile Lydia was asking Peter if they’d be allowed to redecorate their suites and if so, what was the budget.

As the volume and enthusiasm of the chatter picked up, Chris took Peter’s hand and kissed him lightly. They were having another of their silent conversations. Stiles had a feeling that this was a big step for Peter, bigger and more painful than he was letting on, but he squeezed his mate’s hand and nodded. The message was clear: they had each others’ back. They were in it together.

Meanwhile, Theo was wearing his bland smile, but Stiles could feel his mate’s wariness. Everything just kept moving so quickly. The past few days had felt like a big slumber party, with everyone camping out, but it was obviously temporary. The townhouse was simply not set up to house eleven people. But judging from the conversations swirling around them, there was more than enough room in Hale House. His and Theo’s original deal was to try the pack for two months, but moving into Hale House, instead of, say, Theo’s penthouse, would be as good as saying that this arrangement was permanent.

“We could always spend a few nights a week at your place,” Stiles offered.

“Don’t you mean _I_ could?” Theo said with his dangerous smile. Stiles couldn’t blame him for being skeptical. It didn’t take a psychic to know that even if Stiles tried not to, he would be constantly pushing for them to make their home with the rest of the pack--and that didn’t even take into account his relationship with Chris and Peter.

“Theo….”

“Forget it--I didn’t mean it.”

“This won’t work if you’re not okay,” Stiles said quietly, eyes burning. “I can’t deal with that.”

“Easy, babe, I know. My home’s with you. We both know that’s never going to be the apartment.” Stiles couldn’t help feeling a little guilty: his home was always going to be with Theo _and_ the pack. “Stiles, listen to me: it’s okay, and you don’t need to go into Astral to make sure I’m telling the truth. We had a deal. I’ll tell you when there’s a problem.”

Stiles nodded. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to make it seem....”

“Stiles, you don’t have to be sorry. This shit takes time. And don’t think I don’t see everything you’re doing to make this work for me.”

“I could say the same to you.”

Theo kissed him lightly. “Okay then. Stop worrying.”

“Ooooh! I felt that one!” Erica burst out, pointing a finger at them.

“I think we all did,” Isaac said, sounding more amused than annoyed.

“What’d he do, what’d he do?” Erica sounded like a five-year-old waiting to open her Christmas stocking.

“Chill the fuck out, Erica,” Jackson said. “We don’t need to hear that shit while we’re eating.”

“You chill out,” she shot back. “They’re sitting right there--it’s obviously not X-rated.”

When Chris raised his eyebrows, Lydia said, “Apparently the wolves can feel it whenever Theo does something nice for Stiles.”

“My my, I am impressed,” Peter said. “All of you should feel proud. That level of integration is only possible when the pack bonds are not just strong but flourishing. You put the time we were away to excellent use.” He flashed his eyes at Stiles and mouthed, _good job_.

Peter really meant it. Stiles could almost feel the Alpha willing him for once not to shy away from the full implications of what he was hearing: that the bonds were solid, that Theo really was finding a place in the pack, and most of all, that Stiles, as the pack’s omega Wan Kenobi, deserved _a lot_ of the credit.

It almost made him want to start spewing out some Hallmark card crap about the true meaning of Thanksgiving, but maybe he could drop the cynical teenaged bullshit just this once. Because he was thankful.

Given his past, Stiles’ kneejerk instinct was to think of the pack as a kind of refuge--a place he could hide and nurse his wounds and maybe, if he was very lucky, gradually heal up enough to actually contribute. But Peter wanted him to see another pack: one where healing himself healed his friends too. Where he and Theo working through their trust issues helped build up everyone’s trust. Where his love anchored those he cared about and made them stronger.

And the best part was that playing that role didn’t depend on him being strong or suddenly getting over his problems, and it especially didn’t depend on his fucking “gift.” He could do all of it just by being an omega, by being part of the pack, by caring about his friends.

He’d learned hard lessons at Eichen that hope was for suckers, just another tool for the powers there to torture kids, dangling it only to whip it away again. It was weird to realize that he’d only been out of that hellhole for less than two weeks, because he was already unlearning that lesson. Hope didn’t have to be some blind prayer for pity from your enemy. It was a totally different ballgame when you weren’t powerless, when you had friends, people you could count on, people who counted on you.

When the real meaning of hope was _pack_.


End file.
